


Years prior

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: (I'm gonna be in trouble for this but what can I do the oral sex tag has already been used), Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Car Sex, Chapter 1:, Chapter 2:, Chapter 3:, Character Study, Double Anal Penetration, Hand Jobs, Jerking Off In Bed At Night Thinking About Your Bandmate, M/M, Male Acquaintance, Male Friendship, Masturbation, Multi, No Smoking But Ethanol Is Present In The Background, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Porn Watching, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Sexual Fantasy, Smoking, Sorta Mutual Masturbation, Threesome - M/M/M, Tobacco one more time, Unreliable Narrator, booze, cocksucking, sorta threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: What happened before the Big Bang? Could've been a lot of things, but modern science doesn't know for sure.Or the one in which I explain some observable consequences of the events that happened in the past that led to those consequences by describing those events.
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Original Male Character(s), John 5/Ginger Fish, John 5/Original Male Character(s), Tim Skold/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Tim

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of oversized vignettes that function as a prequel to the story that I've been writing and the beginning of which can be found via this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934837
> 
> The story deals with relationships between three individuals, and in this series of oversized vignettes I delve into those individuals' past, trying to show what made them the idiots they are and just depict them separately from each other.
> 
> There're some references to the story, but the texts can definitely be enjoyed on their own.
> 
> There're going to be additional warnings and some more info before each chapter.
> 
> English is not my native language, so their might been misteaks. Or sometimes I simply forget that the word "blowjob" exists.
> 
> All characters are fictional and belong to the fucking void.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

  
The notes for this chapter are going to be posted here, because I guess fuck me, I can't have two sets of notes at the beginning.  


__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The original characters depicted here were initially briefly introduced in the first part of the whole story the link to which is posted in the main notes. If you want more of them, they make a visit in this chapter of the currently last part of the whole story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734575/chapters/59793844 It might not be very comprehensive on its own, but everybody decides what they want to read for themselves, right? Right.

Warning 1: there're some homophobic slurs in here, both in English and German.

Warning 2: German isn't my native language either and my ability to communicate or write in it is much more limited than that in English, so again, there're probably mistakes and I might not be really equipped to make those puns I'm making, but alas: I write what the fucking void tells me to write.

Useful info: nevertheless, there is going to be a glossary of everything German in this text at the end, listed in order of appearance. I personally think that most of it could be understood from context, but if you want details, just scroll down.

Ta-da! Now to the text.  


__________________________________________________________________________________________________

***

"Son of a Schlampe!" Tim swears, banging his tailbone on the floor as he topples over. "Fuck. _Fuuuuck_. Motherfucker. I told you not to touch me with your dumb hands."

Anton guffows like a goddamn donkey.

"You also told me you could do it."

"Fuck," Tim says, patting his hurt backside. "I didn't tell you I could do it while you make it hard for me. You fucking tickling bastard. Stef, can you give me a cigarette?"

Stefan parts with the joint he's smoking, and Tim catches the package a few seconds later, lighting one up and taking a drag, looking at him, all long legs and hooded eyes.

"You could've helped me," he remarks.

Stefan smiles.

"Not really. I can't help myself. You know what he does to me every morning and I'm still friends with him. So..."

Tim chuckles.

"Just tell him to fuck off," Stefan adds.

"Fuck off yourself," Anton responds. They're in Stefan's flat. "Dopehead."

"I had a shitty day," Stefan waves him away. "I had a shitty week dealing with your talentierte Jugend. Their tuning sucks. Their tempo sucks. Their whole record sucks and you know it."

"Yeah, so? The ly---"

"The lyrics kinda suck as well, by the way," Tim interjects, getting up and groaning. "Wings of Dunkelheit my ass."

He deposits himself on the couch next to Stefan, the clinking of the beer bottles Anton's going through muffling Anton's drivel concerning his ass he has opinions about.

His ass hurts.

Fuck that coccyx or whatever that is called.

Fuck Anton and his moronic challenges.

"Thanks, Schatzi," Tim mutters, accepting the joint Stefan puts between his teeth, taking away the cigarette. "Oh. Fuck. Fuck, yeah. There. Right there."

The fumes escape his parted lips, his mouth falling agape.

Stefan's long fingers are rubbing exactly at his injured whatever that is called.

Fuck Stefan. Fuck him good. ASAP.

"Fuck, Stef."

Tim's head falls on Stefan's shoulder.

"Jesus fucking Christus," Anton says, voice sounding like he is burping. "Stop this. Stop this Schwuchtel bullshit. Do you have to always start this when I am around?"

"Oh yeah," Tim says, straightening up and returning the joint to Stefan. "Because then you lock the door and join in and I get to do something better than standing on my damn head."

Anton pshaws at him, taking a swig.

"You just can't do it. Cocksucker. You only know how to be a faggot and that's it."

"I'm also good at getting wasted," Tim objects, grabbing at his bottle.

"And his tuning doesn't suck," Stefan supplements, while Tim is gulping down Anton's beer.

"And I _can_ do it," Tim says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just give me a minute and you'll see."

Anton makes a face at him, doubting his statement, and fishes another bottle for himself out of the pile on the table, and then they get to listen to more of the clinking, Anton now going through Stefan's CDs in search of some trash, which he won't find, obviously, because those are _Stefan's_ CDs.

Tim finishes the joint, then the cigarette, then runs his fingers over Stefan's leg, scraping the jeans.

"Hey, is it Hamburger Arschloch-Verein for you or FC Skövde 66?" he asks, smiling with a corner of his mouth and getting up to hopefully humiliate the above-mentioned asshole.

"Werder Bremen," Stefan says. "But I'll call in the ambulance if you crack your skull or something."

Tim chuckles.

"Well, thank you, knuddelbär," he says and waves at Anton. "Hey, stop ransacking his Konservatorium. There's no shit you're a fan of in there. Check me out. Just don't come closer."

Then Anton checks him out and Stefan does it too and Tim comes closer to the wall, rubs at his shoulders, sits down, takes his position, changes it, says it is ridiculous, grazes his already wounded tailbone on Stefan's scratchy plastering through Anton's track pants he's wearing, says _fuck_ and stands on his head like a wasted, currently inverted pro.

"Ha," Anton says, approaching him.

"Uh-huh," Tim says, moving his feet carefully, warning him that there will be kicking if he tries to tickle him again. "Time to eat some Scheiße, Anton, isn't it?"

Anton laughs, catching his left foot by the toe.

"Is this your army training? I was sure you only _pleased die Generäle_ and that's it."

Tim chuckles, trying to reach the floor without making it into a crash site.

"No," he says. "And those videos you watched were porn. Not military service exercises."

Anton shrugs, helping him to get up.

"I wouldn't know."

Tim sways a bit, putting a hand over Anton's shoulder and searching his own pockets to make sure the smokes are still there.

"Yeah, I'm aware. Sex, drugs and Zivildienst," he glances at Stefan, who's been observing his gymnastics with a smile. "No offence to you. You genuinely are a nice person. He's just lazy."

"None taken," Stefan nods. "I really enjoyed looking after the elderly, actually." Anton rolls his eyes. "Anyway. Are you guys finished?"

"Fuck, no," Tim says, poking Anton's chest with his index finger. "It's your turn."

Anton slaps his hand away.

"I wasn't the one who bragged about it."

"That wasn't bragging. I simply said that I could do it. Which I've done. Do you understand what the word _fact_ means?"

Anton drills him with his eyes.

"Okay," he says eventually, shaking his head and giving Tim the bottle. "Hold it."

Then Tim not only holds it, but also takes sips, and Stefan holds his breath, keeping the pot exhaust in his lungs, and releases it along with chuckles, both of them highly entertained, Anton red and grunting and losing coins that are falling out of his pockets.

Tim picks one up and throws it at Stefan.

"Oh, here, found your salary for the last month," he says, and Stefan catches it, laughing out loud, which doesn't help Anton in his demanding task in the slightest.

Tim observes his stubborn panting misery for a little longer.

"Do you need aid?" he asks, bending to enjoy Anton's red face. "My services come at a very modest rate."

Anton curses, puffing out word roots all stuck together and disgruntled air, and unfolds, taking a more conventional position on the floor and glancing up at Tim.

"Yeah, I know your fucking payment system very well," he says, pulling a face as if Tim's cash transactions have ever left him unsatisfied. "Schwanzbezahlen."

Tim snorts, Stefan tuning in from the couch.

"Okay," Anton continues, having stocked up his pockets on all the coins that have left them. "Give me your best."

The coins once again vacate his pants as Tim operates his grumpy, heavy body, pushing it forward, backward, up and up again, until his boots are at Tim's smirking face level. Which doesn't last for long, because Tim plants a wet, loud, open mouth kiss on the worn leather and Anton wriggles, trying to see what the fuck he's doing. Which he also doesn't, because he topples over too.

"Lutsch’ meine Eier!" he mutters, D-Marks jumping on the floor as his bones scatter across it.

Tim chuckles.

"As you wish," he says and lies down too.

Then he has to prop his head on his elbow and occupy his hands with pfennigs, because, sadly, that was not an order.

Stefan rolls a beer bottle towards them.

Stefan genuinely is a nice person.

Tim tosses a coin in the air, glancing at him over the shoulder, while Anton tries to open the bottle with another metal piece of legal tender.

"Do you wanna join us?" he asks. "I can kiss your shoes too. Would have to jump for that, of course, but..."

Stefan laughs, shaking his head, a bit drowsy.

"No, thank you, I'll pass. I think, my skull was designed for containing brains rather than standing on it."

"Ouch," Tim says, Anton giving him his support and throwing the cap he has defeated at Stefan. "That hurts, Schatzi."

"I didn't mean you," Stefan says and throws the cap he's caught back at Anton, while Anton gulps down the beer.

Anton's no goalkeeper.

Tim grins.

"Come on," he says, while Anton rubs at his injured forehead. "We are your friends. We need you in our stupid upside down gang."

Stefan purses his lips, shaking his head again.

"No way. I'm too tall for that. I'll kick the Lüster off the ceiling and will have to have it fixed. And I don't have money for this. You saw how much I earn."

Anton mutters something Tim doesn't fully understand, words becoming way too long and intertwined, something about Kommerzialismus and Undankbarkeit.

"There is no _Lüster_ on your ceiling," Tim says himself, interjecting. There are ultra modern flat round lamps imbedded in the plastering and a set of track lighting crossing the whole studio. The set Tim wouldn't be able to reach even if he jumps. Unlike Anton, Stefan doesn't live in Marzahn or Hellersdorf or wherever that fucking station's at. "And geometry doesn't work like this. Line segment AB is the same length as line segment BA, as you know."

"Not really," Stefan responds. "I only make the ringing in people's ears pleasant."

Tim grins, a friendly platoon joining forces with him.

"Come on," Anton says. "Do it. We will help you. It's not the worst thing in the world."

"Dude, I don't trust you," Stefan informs him. "Tim's fine, but you being a part of it is more like putting up the scarecrow to lure me in."

"Come on," Tim says, waving at him. "I'll scare off the scarecrow. And he won't touch you anyway. His homosociality is all about distancing from his peers."

Anton pushes him.

"I'm not a homo, you fucker."

Tim laughs as Stefan gets up and comes closer to them, chuckling too.

"Yeah, you're a dumbass," Tim says, getting up as well and offering a cozy and inviting spot on the floor to Stefan in a welcoming gesture. "Anton, move a bit. Stef, these quarters are for you. Please, enjoy yourself. I'm gonna put your perspective aus den Kopf as efficient as I can."

"Auf," Stefan says and then, after a bit of careful positioning and struggling with infinitely long and swaying line segments clad in well-tailored jeans, says that again, perspective altered with Tim's aid, Stefan's skull meeting the laminated flooring, Tim's bare feet guarding it from Anton's attempts to shave off his eyebrows or glue pfennigs on his eyelids or stick currywurst up his nostrils or the list goes on.

"Auf," Stefan exhales once more, landing on the laminate between the two of them some moments later, and Anton almost gets his elbow in the face, while Tim gets Stefan's bent knee.

Tim runs a finger over it, the shin, the knee again, the thigh, biting his lower lip, and his hand has to jump as well.

He smiles, shaking his head.

"God, your have long fucking legs. They are like taller than I am."

Stefan laughs, taking a sip from Anton's beer that's now his, because Anton's severely disinclined to share homoerotic kisses through the glass unless he's pissed drunk and has forgotten his niche germ theories.

Tim's finger repeats his lengthy journey, Anton making a face at him.

"But seriously," Tim says, voice pensive. "How long are they?"

Anton snorts.

"Fucking bones are not what normal guys usually measure, you Tunte."

Tim rolls his eyes, and Stefan shrugs.

"Don't know," he says and then turns to Anton. "And by the way, _Onkel_ , neither have I sized my boner."

Tim plants a wet, loud, open mouth kiss on Stefan's neck.

Had Stefan not declined the state's offer to take part in the acts of war, he would've made a whole defense squad.

"Thanks, Schatzi," Tim says, winking at Anton. "But I'm... Why haven't you? I mean, the bigot's kinda right. Most dudes I know have done it. I've done it."

He also has done it to quite a few boners other than his own.

Stefan shrugs again.

"I mean, I probably have. When I was like twelve or something. But..." But this lovely person on Tim's left hasn't stayed twelve, unlike the fucker on his right. "I don't really care? It's bigger than my pinky and it doesn't reach my knee." Tim laughs. "So it's just average and that's it. It's like that weird effect you told me about when ninety percent of the drivers think they are in the top fifty of the best ones."

"Primus inter pares," Tim nods.

"Yeah, that one," Stefan continues. "Anyway. I really don't think it matters that much. It seems to work fine, so..."

"Oh, that it does," Tim nods again, much more enthusiastically, and Stefan laughs, and Anton pshaws at him. "Yours too, comrade, don't you worry." He props himself on his elbow, looking at Anton over Stefan's chest he keeps touching absent-mindedly. "And since you measured your achtes Weltwunder just this morning, please, share the number with us. I, for one, am dying to know."

He smirks, when Anton fails to accept his compliments.

"Nineteen," Anton then says, opting for smugness and probably omitting _and a half._

Stefan whistles.

"Bullshit," Tim declares immediately.

"Fuck off," Anton reacts promply too. "It's my cock and it _is_ fucking nineteen centimeters long."

Tim chuckles, rather softly.

He might've served the bloodthirsty state, but he's much less into combat than he's into sex, drugs and dear old Arschlöcher.

"It's _bigger_ ," he says. "I mean..." He makes vague gestures at his own various body parts, trying to invocate the memories of _jobs_ he's done for Anton in the mind of the man himself. "I mean, it fucking has to be bigger, if I know anything about cocks. Which I do."

The man himself looks utterly confused.

Stefan starts laughing, Tim's hand lying on his stomach jumping.

"This is the weirdest penis argument I've ever witnessed," he says, covering Tim's hopping fingers with his own and glancing at the set of track lighting up in heaven. " _My cock's big. No, it's even bigger_. Jesus."

Tim laughs too, Anton huffing out a chuckle with him.

"Well," Tim says. "It's just... You know, cocks are like my hobby horse, so. I can fucking bet your salary that his log is bigger." He turns his head to Anton, who, it seems, prefers forestry comparisons to remarkable constructions of ancient times. "You sure it's nineteen? When did you measure it?"

Anton glances at the point of their discussion hanging out in his loose shabby pants.

"Not this morning," he says. "Like... Donno, a few times. At school and in my early twenties." And _last_ morning. "And it's nineteen. Maybe nineteen and a half."

Tim smiles. Then Tim frowns. Then Tim chews on his lips.

"Weird," he says.

"Okay, how big do _you_ think it is?" Anton asks.

Tim shrugs.

"Twenty one. Twenty two. Something like it."

Anton shrugs as well.

"Well, what can I say, it was nineteen."

Tim chews on his lips some more, wrinkling his nose.

"How did you measure it?"

Anton pshaws. Then Anton rolls his eyes. Then Anton shakes his head at him.

"With a ruler?" he offers. "And no, I didn't do it in a refrigerator."

Tim tries to pat his arm, bent over Stefan.

Who is amused.

"I'm not implying that," he goes on. "Just like... Did you find your pelvic bone?"

Anton furrows his eyebrows.

"My what bone?"

"The pelvic bone. In your pelvis. The one that's like on the side of the base. The front of the whole... girdle or whatever that is called," Tim offers his futile explanation.

Anton is not amused.

Stefan still is.

"Dude," Anton says. "Can you like..." He trails off, making vague gestures with his hands. "We play music. Are you secretly a fucking librarian or something?"

Tim laughs out loud.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm not. Just, donno, went to sex ed classes back in the day and read some articles? There isn't only one way to measure a cock and some of them are wrong. That's it. Like you have to stand and not move your hips. And yeah, find that bone and press the ruler to it. Cuz there is like fat tissue where the shaft's seated..." He trails off as well, Anton raising his eyebrows at him. "Fuck. Fucking hell." He turns his head to Stefan. "Stef, do you have a ruler? It's easier just to show him."

Stefan licks his lips, glancing at him.

"Yeah, probably. Why? Are you gonna do it?"

Tim shrugs.

"Yeah, why not? We aren't busy. Or do you mind?"

Stefan smiles, starting to get up.

"No, not at all. I'll go look for it."

"I am not hard," Anton says.

Tim chuckles at his futile objection.

"Well, that will be changed, trust me. Come on. Get up."

Stefan regards them for a few more seconds, while Anton stands up, grunting, and Tim changes his position too, shifting closer to him, reaching for the zipper, and then he goes hunting for the tool of measurement.

Tim, on the other hand, is absorbed in playing quite a different instrument for the next... who knows.

He isn't counting.

"Fuck," Anton grits out somewhere above his head. "Fuck verdammt. Fucking Schwanzlutscher."

Tim huffs out a wet, loud, obviously open mouthed sound and pushes forward, backward, up and up again, as close to Anton's pelvic bone as he can.

And moans.

Anton isn't particularly quiet either.

Tim pulls back a little, glancing up, employing his fingers to sustain continuous erection.

Anton isn't the only one who's admiring him from above.

The corner of Tim's stretched lips quirks and he winks at Stefan, proceeding with the show even more passionately, holding his gaze.

It takes who knows how many acts for Anton to notice other members of the audience.

"Fuck," he says, most certainly moving his hips, and gives a shudder, jumping. "Fuck, Stefan. You... I'm not a fucking porn star. Stop staring at me."

"I'm not staring at _you_ ," Stefan says, winking at Tim.

Tim gives Anton's cock a few more licks and Stefan a couple more shots of the spectacle he's watching and then withdraws, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes the ruler from Stefan.

"Okay," he says, starting the palpation process of Anton's pubic area and stopping the little jolts Anton's giving when his fingers brush against his length.

Then, when the bone is found, he presses the ruler to it and to the right side of Anton's quite bigger than average cock, aligning it with it, and diligently checks the numbers.

"Twenty one point four."

Stefan whistles again, and Tim smirks, glancing at both him and Anton, wondering if he's so impressed with the size of what die Natur has endowed Anton with or with Tim's measuring talents.

"Oh," Anton says, blinking dumbly at him, and Tim sucks two of Stefan's fingers in his mouth, and Stefan says _oh_ too, and this time Tim's sure about what it is he finds impressive.

Then Anton says _fuck_ and all three of them shift, sit and then lie down one after another.

"Fuck," Anton says, taking a swig from the bottle that he's forgotten is now Stefan's and glancing down for fuck knows what time in the last fuck knows how many seconds.

"What?" Tim crawls closer to him and to what he's glancing at.

Anton shrugs.

"You sure it's twenty one?"

Tim nods.

"Twenty one point four. Precisely."

Stefan lights up a cigarette, his eyes travelling up and down Tim's body.

"Fuck. It was nineteen."

Stefan laughs, exhaling the smoke.

"We could whittle it down a little, if you're so upset," he offers to Anton.

To Tim he offers the cigarette, which Tim gladly takes.

"Oh, verpiss dich," Anton says to him, while Tim blows him a kiss. "I am not upset. But it was nineteen and I am not as dumb as this faggot always says I am."

Tim gives the smoke back to Stefan and creeps even closer, so that now Anton's boner is at his smirking face level.

"Probably it just wasn't fully erect," he says, his eyes travelling up and down his cock which is roaring hard at the moment. "I mean, I wasn't around to help you. So maybe you're like nineteen and a half in general and twenty one point four when Tim Skold is in the room."

Anton pshaws at him and starts shoving the object of his admiration back into his loose shabby pants.

The object, it seems, doesn't want that.

Tim doesn't want that even more.

"Hey," Tim says, slapping his hand away and wrapping his fingers around him. "Don't deprive me of my treat." He moves his hand and then moves himself, licking at the head. Anton gives a shudder and bites down a moan. "Yeah, that's better."

"Fuck," Anton says some time later, and his muscles tense up once again and then relax, as he himself relaxes on the floor, accepting his fate, and what Tim spent those moments on was Schwanzlecken, nuckeln, nässen, schlürfen and possibly even fressen.

Also, he angled his head just so, because he heard some shifting, and then he was Stefan's personal porn star - and he became that quite willingly.

He hums, feeling Stefan's fingers tracing his hip bones, and takes most of Anton's cock out of his mouth, looking at the genuinely lovely person who's watching him.

Stefan bites his lips, while Tim fondles three or maybe four centimeters of Anton's length with his, not forgetting to stick his tongue into the leaking slit, and Anton says _fuck_ again.

Tim smiles.

Stefan keeps drawing circles on the fabric of Anton's track pants Tim's wearing. Stefan keeps watching him.

Tim keeps sucking.

Then, after he shows Stefan most of his repertoire, which takes a while and makes Anton into a parrot with Tourette syndrome, he wraps his fingers around the thickest part of the shaft, rubbing at his own hard palate with the tip, and an interesting idea crosses his mind.

"Hm," he says, pulling away a little, and examines both articles of Anton's clothing.

Of course, he finds a thread.

"Hm," he says, having pulled it out, wrapped it around the thickest part of the shaft he was holding and stretched it along the ruler, Stefan observing, Anton asking him what the fucking fuck he's doing. "Fucking hell. Almost eighteen. That would be..." He pauses, calculating, while Anton mutters that didn't he say it was twenty one. "Like, fifteen point fifty... point seventy and... Shit. Stef, eighteen divided by three point fourteen. How much is it?"

Stefan shrugs, smiling at him.

"No idea. Why?"

"Wanna know the diameter," Tim explains, losing the trail of his reverse division process. "Fuck. Whatever. Five point eight or something. Fuck. Almost six. Wow."

He pauses, numbers getting replaced with other thoughts in his head, but his fingers don't go on a break, they still travel up and down what he's measured in all three dimensions.

Stefan also keeps watching him.

"What?" he asks.

While Anton keeps being pronouncedly homophobic in his expression of the erotic pleasure.

"Hm," Tim hums again, glancing at Stefan and circling the head of Anton's cock with his tongue. "Just wondering..."

Stefan hums too.

"What about?"

Tim pulls away, trying to estimate if the girth of what he's holding plus Stefan's average circumference equal the perimeter of his quarters that are aching to be filled.

"Like, if you guys could..." he says, trailing off, and looks at Anton who's now also staring at him, confused about the lack of passionate Schwanzlutschen. "Hey, dude, do you wanna fuck me in the ass with Stefan?"

Anton's dumbfounded face doesn't give him any answer, so he turns back to Stefan, who's genuinely nice and a bit worried, despite being seriously into him.

Stefan clears his throat.

"I uh..."

"Will it fit?" Anton cuts Stefan short, and Anton's a rude motherfucker and a bit prejudiced, despite being absolutely horny for him.

"Not sure," Tim shrugs. "I mean, two of ones like Stefan's definitely have." Stefan makes another sound. "But yours is a bit of a... well." He looks at Stefan again. "Is there still lube in that bottle?"

"Yeah," Stefan nods slowly. "Do you want to... You sure you want to do it?"

"Uh-huh," Tim says. "I mean, we can try. If it doesn't fit, well, then it's a good old spit roast or whatever. Unless you mind." Stefan shakes his head. "Do _you_ mind?" Tim asks, and Anton is still listening to his answer from their previous exchange. "Okay. Great. Should I---"

"No," Stefan says and gets up. "I'll go get it. It's in a different place."

"Thanks, Schatzi," Tim says and doesn't utter any words until Anton's cock is in his ass, because before that happens Anton's cock is in his mouth.

Then he says _oh fuck_ , because Stefan's cock is gradually getting where Anton's is and that's...

"You okay?" Stefan pants out behind his back, his voice soft, ringing pleasantly in Tim's ears, his long legs touching Tim's shaking ones, thighs to thighs and calves to calves and skin to skin, his body covering him from above, and Anton grunts beneath him as Stefan's cock sinks in, his voice gritty, his nails he never cuts digging in Tim's arms, his breath hitting Tim's overwhelmed face, his tense, contorted, red face getting blurry before Tim's eyes, and then Stefan's hand lands right on Tim's grazed coccyx or whatever that is of Tim's, and something runs through Tim's whole hot, tingling body that seems a bit unfamiliar to him, like it's from Bremen or dangling off the set of track lights that kind of blind him, something runs down his cheeks, if those are them, something wet, and Tim's mouth falls open, there is a sound, loud sound, and as Tim goes down in one determined, hurried motion Tim is okay.

More than that.

And as Tim comes, jumping up and down, reaching fucking heaven on wings of fucking Dunkelheit, Anton's swearing and Stefan's tongue in his ears, as both of them fill his stretched, aching, pulsing hole up, Tim is okay, Tim's fine, Tim's frankly better than he's ever been, Tim is amazing, Tim wonders, as his mind goes blank, if it is possible to always, always feel like this, Tim wonders, if the achtes Weltwunder could happen to him every moment of his life.

"Heute ist der vierzehnte April, das Wetter ist sonnig und ein bisschen windig, und ich bin wie immer..." the cheerful voice says, cutting through the interference, as Anton fiddles with the radio, scratching his butt and trying to find something that will soon violate their ears, and the smell of pot tickles Tim's nostrils, Stefan lighting up another joint on the couch, all long legs and waving at Tim to come sit with him, and Tim is still sitting on the floor, still a bit spacey, today is the fourteenth of April nineteen ninety something and fuck the weather, he is in Stefan's ultra modern flat, and he is, as always, Tim.

Tim runs his fingers one last time over his own thighs stained with come, licks them with a broad sweep of tongue and gets up to go on.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Glossary, as promised:

Schlampe - slut

talentierte Jugend - talented youth

Dunkelheit - darkness

Schatzi - sweetheart

Jesus fucking Christus - duh

Schwuchtel - faggot

Hamburger Arschloch-Verein - reference to the German football club Hamburger Sport-Verein, but Arschloch means asshole and Verein means society

FC Skövde 66 - reference to the German football club FC Schalke 04 with an obvious substitution of Tim Skold's birthplace and year

Werder Bremen - another German football club

knuddelbär - cuddle bear 

Konservatorium - conservatory

Scheiße - shit

die Generäle - the generals

Zivildienst - is the German denomination for the alternative civilian service for conscripted persons who are conscientious objectors to fulfill their national service, typically in the fields of social work

Schwanzbezahlen - cock payment

Lutsch’ meine Eier - suck my balls

D-Mark - the Deutsche Mark, the official currency of Germany at the time

pfennig - penny, the minor coin of the Deutsche Mark

Kommerzialismus - commercialism

Undankbarkeit - ungratefullness

Lüster - chandelier

Marzahn; Hellersdorf - districts of Berlin, separate at the time, now the Marzahn-Hellersdorf borough

aus den Kopf - erroneous usage of auf den Kopf (on the head, upside down)

Tunte - queen, male homosexual, a slur, and alteration of Tante (aunt)

Onkel - uncle

achtes Weltwunder - eighth wonder of the world

Arschlöcher - assholes

verdammt - damned

Schwanzlutscher - cocksucker

die Natur - nature

verpiss dich - fuck off

Schwanzlecken, nuckeln, nässen, schlürfen, fressen - cocklicking, sucking, wetting, slurping, devouring

Heute ist der vierzehnte April, das Wetter ist sonnig und ein bisschen windig, und ich bin wie immer... - Today is the fourteenth of April, the weather is sunny and a little windy, and I'm as always...


	2. Ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning 1: some people are assholes.
> 
> Warning 2: misogynistic slurs, sexist and homophobic remarks, "guy talk", explicit descriptions of a gangbang porn.
> 
> Warning 3: some people express somewhat unconventional opinions about swastikas.
> 
> Useful info: I know those pronouns are confusing, but, like, sorry, style? You can always drop me a line, anyway, and I'll try to explain which "he" did what.

***

"If you excuse me for a moment," Arno says, getting up, pulling at the hem of his khaki cotton shirt. It's unbuttoned almost all the way down, and he can see the patterns of the colorful tattoo on his chest. Arno nods at the screen of the TV. "My body needs to have a corresponding state of mind."

Then Arno walks out, and he hears the sound of the bathroom door being opened and then closed. He shifts on the couch, the pictures on the screen that he sees out of the corner of his eye distracting him a little when he glances at Max, confused.

"Where... Where did he go?" he asks.

He met Arno for the first time only yesterday. Arno's from Caledon, which he said was boring, Cape Town's better, and Arno'd lived there since he turned fourteen, but then, at nineteen, when he dropped out of the university, he moved out, lived in Rotterdam and now he's in the US, well, in and out, he doesn't do sports, but gym is good and running too and table tennis and eating healthy is important, staying positive and eating healthy, because who knows what they are putting in food these days, it's like everything is made of plastic and some assholes are behind this, it's like Camel or Marlboro, those old ads of theirs, Arno doesn't smoke, he used to, but not anymore, doesn't smoke at all, well, he smokes pot, pot is actually good for you, he said, the doctors use it to treat all sorts of things for a reason, Proposition 215 and so on, and at home they're having trials for that HAT thing and that is cool. Arno is thirty three, like Jesus, he even looks like him a bit, he said, just no beard, he's thin, wiry, very tanned, spends a lot of his time outside, he likes to keep his hair short, he always wears those bracelets, the red and green one is like his lucky charm, once he'd lost it, forgotten it in another town, and then went back, took a taxi, it was like four in the morning, but still, these bracelets are like a part of him, like his signature, he met him yesterday, but it was late and he was kind of sleepy, so he doesn't know much about him, he knows that Arno slept upstairs, in that big room with windows looking out west, they drank tea together in the morning, well, in the afternoon, Arno also likes green tea, but that's it, that's all he knows, and Max hasn't known him for long, they aren't friends, just hang out sometimes, but Max said they'd met last year, so he glances at him, confused, because maybe Max knows where Arno's gone.

Max snorts and smirks.

"To fill up on junk," Max says and then, because he frowns, not really following, the movement on the screen getting more and more intrusive, Max taps the bend of his elbow with his fingers, as if he's about to give himself an injection.

"Oh."

The sound comes out louder than he epxected it to and he shifts again, Max chuckling and turning his attention back to the screen.

"It's been hours since the last time, so he's a bit cranky."

The guy with a watch on his wrist says something about letting them look at her, and the girl pulls down her bra, cupping her breasts and licking at the nipple.

"Jiggly," Max says. "I like jiggly."

Max spreads his legs wider, sliding down a bit, the fabric of his jeans tightening, and he looks away, around the room they are in. He picks up his bottle off the floor, takes a few swigs. His right hand bumps into the remote control, when he puts it on the couch, and Max glances at him.

"Is it the volume?"

He puts his hand around his left elbow.

"No, I uh... Sorry, just bumped into it."

"Hm. If you're into chit chat, I can turn it up."

The camera is now right between the girl's legs, and as she tugs at her silky black strings, showing her pussy, and lets go, there is a loud smack cutting through the soundtrack.

He laughs, abrupt.

"Uh, no. It's... It's fine," he nods at the screen.

"Okay," Max nods too with a grin. "Fuck, she's got a hairy pussy."

He turns his head, looking around the room again. He picks up the cigarette package off the armrest on his left and pulls one out. Arno doesn't smoke, but he seemed okay with Max doing that and yesterday he also smoked one or two and Arno's not here, so. He shifts, trying to take his former spot, because Arno'll probably come back soon and he's too close and...

He glances at Max, fumbling with the cigarette in his hand.

"What the fuck," Max says, raising his eyebrows at the scene on the screen.

One of the guys tells the girl to put it inside, and she tucks the straps of her bra in her pussy slowly, pulling at them, rubbing at the clit with the fabric.

Max is hard.

"Always like a riddle with them. That's too rough, that's too gentle, lower, higher, to the left, to the right..."

He exhales audibly, and Max turns his head to him.

"Oh, give me one too."

He pulls out another cigarette and gives it to Max, lighting his own up as well.

The girl's lying now, legs spread wide. She starts sucking on her index finger, then sticks her tongue out, licking between it and the middle one.

His cock twitches.

He shifts.

Max sits up, propping his chin on his elbow, fingers around the cigarette. Max takes a deep drag.

"Fuck, why are they filming her face now? Dumb."

He jumps a bit, turning to look at the screen again, and as he does, the angle changes, and he sees the girl sliding her fingers in and out of her pussy, rubbing at the clit.

"Hey, hairy, but nice holes," Max says, leaning back. "I say, if a chick has a pussy this hairy, then she at least should have juicy holes. Right?"

He smiles, biting his lips, shifting on the couch one more time. Max puffs out the smoke.

"I don't... I don't mind hair much. I like it."

"Oh," Max nods, glancing at him sideways. "Like 80s style and shit? That's cool, man."

He laughs a bit.

The guy in a baseball cap says something, and the girl gets on the floor, crawling towards him, and then rests her palms on her thighs, bending, her breasts jiggling, somebody muttering in the background.

Max hums approvingly.

The girl sticks her tongue out again, looking up at all six of them.

His cock twitches one more time.

He shivers a little, the cigarette in his hand now a butt, the flame too close to his skin. He puts it out, crosses his arms.

One of the guys suddenly blocks most of the view. The girl arches her neck and takes him in her mouth.

Max makes another sound.

Max's hand is between his legs, covering his erection.

He puts down the package that's been lying in his lap. He bends to pick up the bottle off the floor again.

Max glances at him.

"You don't mind that I..." Max trails off, nodding at his hand that's rubbing at the bulge in his jeans.

He shakes his head, smiling.

"No, of course, not... I mean, it's.. It's porn."

Max laughs.

"Yeah, that's right, man. And boys will be boys no matter what they say."

Other guys are also standing now, in a circle, the girl on her knees between them, taking their cocks in her mouth one after another, wrapping her palms around them.

One of the guys puts his hand in the girl's hair, pulling her towards his cock he's holding, shaking it a little.

His own cock twitches again, pressing into the zipper and tugging at the boxers he's wearing, fabric twisting, a bit uncomfortable, and he shifts, trying to find another position and adjust the underwear, and barely bites down a moan.

He shivers, but Max is silent, it's just the soundtrack and softer, more background noises that the girl and the guys are making, and he still can hear no sign of Arno coming back.

The guy wearing a silver chain around his neck starts rubbing at the girl's pussy as she blows the one with long dyed hair.

He glances at Max.

Max runs his palm over his bulge one last time, says _shit_ and unzips his pants, pulling his cock out.

He puts his left hand on the back of his neck. It's sweaty.

The guy starts sucking one of the girl's breasts.

Max's left hand is in a fist on his knee, he's looking at the screen, jaw tight, the vein on his forehead visible. Max's bottle is right next to his shoe. Max moves his hand, pulling the fabric of his jeans out of the way, cupping his balls, his cock swaying a little with the movement and...

"Dude, you okay?" Max asks, and he puts down the cigarette package that he's just lifted off the couch. He nods, smiles, biting his lips. Max gives him a thumbs up. "My house is your house, by the way."

He frowns, shaking his head a little.

"Uh, what?"

Max nods at his erection.

"Feel free to go ahead. Looks like you want to. It's fucking porn, like you said."

The guy in the baseball cap moves closer, and the girl starts licking at both cocks bumping into her lips.

He exhales, smiling, and looks down.

"I uh... Okay, yeah. Got it."

Max chuckles.

The girl starts taking both cocks in her mouth, alternating between them.

Max moves his palm higher, wrapping it around the head, covering it, turning his fist rhythmically.

Fuck.

He swallows hard, mouth dry, and drops his hand to pick up the beer bottle. His cock throbs.

Fuck.

He puts both his hands on the belt, starts undoing it, fumbling, fingers moving way too fast, he exhales, loud, gives a shudder, the zipper catching on the fabric of the boxers, he pulls his cock out with a low moan and freezes.

The girl bends, one of the guys moving to stand behind her, hand between her legs.

His mouth's dry.

"Shit, you're big," Max says, turning to him. His cock twitches in his hand, and he lets go, fingers spreading, scratching his jeans, and then puts it back on his cock, covering the shaft. "Bitches must be waiting in lines to get to that."

He laughs, licks his lips, bends, picking up the bottle. His mouth's dry.

The guy puts his cock inside the girl and starts rocking his hips as she licks at two cocks, holding them with her hands.

"How big is it?" Max asks, moving his hand lazily, relaxed, nodding at his cock.

The bottle almost slips out of his fingers, and he puts it back down on the floor.

"Don't know... Like, six. Maybe seven."

Max laughs, shaking his head, eyes moving up and down his length.

"No way. I am six and a half. That's more like eight you've got in there."

He bites his lips, smiling, lifts his hand to...

He touches the strand of his hair, the collar, drops it again.

"Maybe, I don't know..."

He needs to drink something. Or maybe not. He's dizzy.

Max grunts and starts looking at the screen.

The guy grips the girl's butt tight as he fucks her, another one slapping her bouncing breasts.

He looks down.

The bottle is way too close to his shoe, his boxers are poking out of his jeans, he moves his hand, bumping into the remote control, sending it towards Max, he moves the bottle a bit, his index finger's grazed, he lifts his hand, exhales, loud, moans, he drops it again and his cock throbs.

The guy pounds into the girl three or four times in separate thrusts and withdraws, holding his cock with his hand. Another one takes his place.

Max curses, muttering something, biting his lower lip, there's sweat on his temple, he tugs at the collar of his T-shirt, moving his shoulders, his hand jumps around the shaft, breath hitching, fist moving faster, there is a strip of lighter skin around his wrist where his watch...

Max turns his head to him, hand moving.

His cheeks burn.

"I uh..." he says, voice dry, barely audibly, the soundtrack ringing in his ears.

"Yeah?" Max says, low, mouth open, eyes moving up and down, body tilted towards him slightly.

He feels hot. His shoe bumps into the bottle. His mouth's...

"Do you..." he starts, glancing at Max's face, it's a bit red, at his cock. He licks his lips, lifts his right hand. "Uh... I can---"

Max grins.

"Yeah, sure, dude."

The guy is pounding the girl's pussy, another one rubbing at her clit, her back arched.

He wraps his palm around Max, his palm is sweaty, skin catching on the skin, Max's cock feels hot, Max jerks up his hips, the head sliding up and down between his fingers, Max makes a sound, huffs, curses, his own cock throbs, the cock is sliding in and out of the girl's pussy, the guy holding her butt, pulling her cheeks open, he moves his hand a bit lower, touching the balls, Max's fingers land on his own, pull his hand up, squeezing, he wraps them tight around the shaft, Max curses, the head bumps into his fingers, sweaty, Max's looking at the screen, the girl is lying down on the floor, the guy spreading her legs, Max glances at him, jerks up his hips, pushing in his palm, presses on his fingers, Max is a bit sweaty, mouth slightly open, his is dry, he licks his lips, moans, his cheeks are burning, the girl looks up, grabbing at another guy's cock, he shifts, closer, remote control pressing into his thigh, Max curses, glancing at him, he...

He leans in, breath caught inside his chest.

Max grunts something out into his mouth, his mouth's minty, like toothpaste, it's that gum he's always chewing, he shifts, the remote control digging into his thigh, the bottle clinking on the floor, the soundtrack is ringing in his ears, Max pushes in his palm, his lips are wet, he tilts his head, bumping in Max's nose with his own, he moans, cock twitching between his fingers, Max's cock throbs, Max holding his fingers tight, holding his hand, moving it, jerking his hips up, pushing in his palm, Max moans, he sucks on Max's tongue, breath hot, his face is hot, he shakes, licking at Max's lips, the head is bumping into his fingers Max is holding, he presses his hand into his own cock, it jerks, the remote control falls on the floor, he shifts closer, his knee bumping into Max's knee, Max's hand tightens on his hand, he lifts his left hand, his cock throbbing, Max's tongue is in his mouth, sliding between his lips, cock between his fingers, Max pushing in his palm, he lifts his hand, he...

"Oh, shit, guys, sorry," Arno says, voice coming loud from above.

He jumps. Max's face is a bit red, lips wet, Max glances up at Arno over his shoulder. He shifts, taking his former spot, bends to pick up the remote control and the cigarette package he, it seems, has kicked off the couch, puts them between himself and Max. He bites his lips.

Max laughs.

"No problem, man. Join in. Ken is just really into kissing when he's drunk. Gay or straight or with a hairdryer, you know. Doesn't matter to him."

"Yeah?" Arno asks, sitting down next to him, on his left, picking his beer bottle off the floor and giving it to him. "You bi?"

He smiles, taking a sip, nods, his shoulder twitching.

The camera is staring right between the girl's legs, cock thrusting in her pussy, fast, creating a clapping sound.

"That's cool," Arno says, spreading his legs and leaning on the back of the couch, watching the scene for a few seconds and then turning his head to him. "I'm bi too. You know, like... It's stupid. Gay, straight, shit like that. Everybody's actually bi. That's nature. That's what's real. That gay and straight shit is just bullshit sold to us by some fuckers."

Max puffs out air with a low chuckle, tilting forward, looking at the screen. His hand is still on his cock, moving slowly.

"I'm not. I like tits. That's it. Well, okay. I'd bang those twinks that are always after Ken at every party. But apart from that... Tits."

The guy gets up, another one taking his place, the one wearing the baseball cap, and somebody spreads the girl's legs, holding her feet.

He shifts, putting his hand on his cock, trying to tuck it in a bit.

He laughs softly.

"There're no twinks," he says, glancing at Arno, explaining, Arno looking at him, eyebrows slightly raised. "Max's just joking. There was one guy at a party like a few months ago and..."

Another guy holds his cock out right abover the girl's face as the guy in the baseball cap fucks into her, and she sticks her tongue out, licking at it, moaning.

He shivers, biting his lips.

Arno hums.

"Twinks would go crazy about your dick, though," Arno says, glancing at his cock. "They love it big."

Max snorts.

"Yeah, right? Hung motherfucker. You should've been a porn actor like those guys, not a drummer."

He laughs, shifting, moving his hand around the shaft several times, his thighs tensing up.

The guy sticks the head of his cock in the girl's mouth, jerking off, another one touching her breasts as she lies on her back, legs spread wide.

"I uh..." he says, turning away and taking a sip of his beer. "Don't think that's for me."

Max grunts, moving his hand, the guy pulling at the girl's nipples.

"Hm," Arno says. "I'd do it, if somebody offered. It's pretty cool. I have friends in the industry."

"Yeah?" Max asks. "Like chicks or crew?"

The guy keeps playing with the girl's nipples, another one slapping her pussy with the back of his palm as he fucks into her.

He puts the beer bottle on the floor, trying to figure out where it won't get knocked off.

"Both," Arno says. "So like if I ever feel like it, that'll be easy... But I don't think I'd wanna do something like this." He nods at the screen. "Gang bang shit."

The tattoo on Arno's fingers says _rage_.

"Oh," Max exhales. "Not your thing? I can put something else on."

The one on his chest, the big colorful one, is a right facing broken sun cross, tulips and other, smaller patterns around it.

"Nah, chill out. The shit is hot," Arno says, and Max chuckles. "And I'm fine with watching it. Just like, not something I'd wanna participate in. It's like... disbalanced? I don't wanna be just one of the guys. That's boring."

The guy with long dyed hair sits down between the girl's legs, putting his own underneath hers, and shoves his cock inside, moving his hips, resting his weight on his palms.

Max hums, smirking.

"Gotcha. What would you do then? Like a harem thing? I'd sure like to do that."

Max's hand on his cock stutters, slowing down for a few seconds, Max adjusting the grip.

He moves his fingers, clenching his fist a couple of times, brushing against the remote control.

The girl starts moaning louder.

"Maybe," Arno says. "Or an orgy. Like a sex club scene or something. Donno. I mean, porn is art, so... I guess I prefer experimental stuff. What do you think?"

He jumps, realizing that Arno's talking to him, not to Max.

"I uh..." he says, Arno dragging his fingers over his chest absent-mindedly, scratching the skin. "Sorry, what?"

Max makes a sound, tense, the girl's breasts bouncing as she moves, surrounded by the guys, cocks in both her hands.

"What kind of porn do you like?" Arno asks.

He shifts, his cock twitching.

He shrugs.

"Don't know, like..." he gives himself a tug, glancing at the screen. The camera cuts to showing the girl's pussy, the cock sliding in and out of it. "I watch solo sometimes. And... Lesbian. Lesbian is fine."

Max grunts.

He bites his lips.

"Lesbian with a guy," Max says. "Right? What's the point if there're just two chicks? What are they gonna do? Knit together?"

He breathes out a laugh, glancing at Arno, then at the screen.

The girl mouthes at the guy's cock.

"The more the merrier, as they say," Arno says, eyes on the TV.

Max chuckles.

He bends to pick up the bottle, his and Arno's eyes meeting.

He licks his lips.

"Do you..." he starts uncertainly. Arno's khaki shirt is completely unbuttoned now. He can see his erection in his loose bright green rustly pants. "Like..."

Arno smiles, humming, shakes his head.

"Nah, it's not yet the time."

"Oh," he breathes out.

The guys turn the girl to her side, the one with a watch on his wrist fucking her mouth, another one pounding her pussy, holding her leg up.

"I can do you, though," Arno adds, and he shivers.

Max snorts, muttering something under his breath, looking at the screen, thumbing the head of his cock.

He looks down and nods, swallowing hard. His neck is sweaty. The bottle is clinking on the floor.

"Fuck."

The guy's cock is slick, moving rhythmically inside the girl's pussy.

Arno's hand is calloused.

"Yeah?" Arno says, looking at him.

His hips jerk up. He nods again.

Arno's hand is calloused, kind of like his own, well, not like his own, Arno's not a drummer, he's... he doesn't know what he is, what he does, that is, he only met him yesterday, he doesn't know much, Arno has tattoos, the one on his fingers says _rage_ , his fingers are around him, tanned, a bit rough, the nails blunt, rectangular, sharp edges, the nails catching on his skin as Arno moves his hand, his wrist with bracelets around it, the head bumping into his palm, cock throbbing, Arno's shifting closer, grunting, Arno adjusts his grip, Max grunts too, there is a bracelet around the girl's wrist too, she's mouthing at the cock, hands wrapped around two other ones, breasts bouncing, the bottle clinks on the floor, it's next to his shoe, next to Arno's shoe, Arno thumbs the head, nail catching on the skin, his hand is calloused, he has tattoos, the one on his chest is colorful and it is...

"Are you..."

His mouth's dry.

Arno's hand's dry too, his mouth's dry, the tattoo on his chest is colorful, tulips and rotation, his wrist turning, dry hand around his shaft, his hips jerk up, he bites his lips, he almost moans, his mouth is dry, _are you_ , he says, he licks his lips, the girl licks at the cock the guy is holding right above her face, Max's face is sweaty, his lips were wet, his hand's not dry, he must have spit in it, it's moving slowly, Max's looking at the screen, the nail catches on the skin, the girl's lips around the cock, her breasts bouncing as the guy fucks into her, she moves her hands, Arno's hand is dry and calloused, he thumbs the head, fuck, his mouth's dry, his neck is sweaty, fuck...

"Yeah?" Arno asks, their eyes meeting again.

The tattoo on Arno's chest is colorful, it is a broken sun cross, there are tulips, he's thin, wiry, tanned, his pupils are dilated, hair short, he's looking at him, his hand around his cock, dry, calloused, fingers pressed tight to him, his cock twitching, throbbing, nails catching on the skin...

"Yeah?" Arno asks him.

His mouth's dry.

"I uh," he says, he shakes his head, his neck is sweaty, hips jerk up, the girl is moaning, soundtrack is ringing in his ears, he glances at the screen, at Arno. "N-nothing. Just..."

He moans, pushing in Arno's palm.

Arno grins.

Arno grins and hums, shifting closer to him, Arno's hand's around his cock, moving, nails catching on the skin, he moans, the letters on Arno's fingers are a bit blurry, that tattoo must be old, his skin is tanned, he thumbs the head, he bites his lips, bites down a moan, the girl is moaning, his legs are spread, he's sweaty in his jeans, his legs are trembling slightly, the bottle is right next to his shoe, between him and Arno, he tries to shift, his mouth's dry, his body's heavy, the girl is now jumping on top of the guy, another guy's hand in her hair, cock in her mouth, he moves the hair out of the way, he licks his lips, Max's lips were wet, Max's a bit sweaty, the vein is visible on his forehead, he's looking at the screen, the girl's breasts bouncing, his knuckles bump into the remote control, his hips jerk up, cock throbbing, bumping into Arno's fingers, his fingers tight around him, his hand moving, there're bracelets around his wrist, he's shifted closer to him, their knees are touching, Arno's body hot, wiry, tanned, his shirt's unbuttoned, the colorful tattoo with sun cross on his chest, erection, Adam's apple, his pants are rustling, as he shifts, he turns his wrist, his hips jerk up, head heavy, mouth's dry, he moans, he's...

"Wow," Max says. "What the hell?"

He swallows hard, breathless, glancing at the screen.

Arno hums.

"That's a good type of hell," he remarks.

Max chuckles.

His legs shake, his mouth is dry, he moves to pick up the bottle clinking on the floor, his whole body heavy, faint.

"Here," Arno says, giving the beer to him.

One of the guys is pulling at the girl's hair hard, another slapping her face with his cock, shoving it in her mouth and pulling out.

He shivers.

"Huh," Max says. "Is that your thing?"

He takes several big sips, shudders, head falling on the back of the couch. He shifts, the remote control digging in his thigh. Arno's fingers tense up for a second around his cock, relax again. He moans, way too loud.

"Thanks," he breathes out, the bottle almost slipping out of his sweaty hand.

Arno hums and nods, taking it away from him, giving his cock a few lazy tugs.

He can't stop shaking.

"Yeah, why not," Arno says to Max, tucking the bottle between the armrest and the seat. "It's kinda popular right now. The girls who do that get paid more. Like S&M shit, bondage. Choking. It's cool."

The guy shoves his cock deeper in the girl's mouth, gagging her. He presses on her nape with his palm, pushing in and out.

He lifts his hand, wipes his face. Arno drops his, touching his balls, nails scratching at the skin. He shivers.

Max chuckles.

"Well, it sure doesn't look bad," he says, smirking, looking at the screen. "Fuck, he's like fucking her throat. Fuck. You done anything like that?"

He's dizzy.

"Yeah," Arno says, shrugging, fingers moving slowly along the shaft. "I've had a few girlfriends who liked it rough. Spit in her mouth and so on."

Max grunts, his hand tensing up around the head.

"Wow," he says. "Shit, it's like I got all the dull whining ones. Fuck, I'd sure love to bang a chick like that." He nods at the screen. The girl moans, jumping, the guy pressing on her nape, her breasts bouncing as she moves. "Hey, you know, they told her to like put her bra inside her pussy while you were gone. And she did. Straps and everything."

Arno hums, shifting closer to him, putting his arm on the back of the couch, around his shoulders. He wraps his left hand around him.

Their thighs touch.

"One of my girlfriends used to hook up with a guy who liked to wear a bra," Arno says, looking at the screen, moving his hand, squeezing his cock a bit. "While fucking, you know. He'd put it on and get on all fours and she'd rail him with a dildo."

"Shit, man," Max says, chuckling, glancing at Arno. "That's fucked up."

Arno shrugs again, his fingers brushing against the back of his neck. It's still sweaty.

Arno's body hot and their thighs are touching.

"Not sure it is," Arno says, trailing his nails over the underside of his shaft. "I mean, the nature's put those nerve endings there for a reason, so..."

Max laughs out loud, shaking his head.

"Now I am on fucking guard," he says, eyeing him and Arno. "A bunch of perverts in my house. Jesus." He smirks, turning to look at the screen. The camera cuts to showing the girl's pussy, the guy's cock moving in it, slick. "Anal's great, but only the other way around. And the fucking bra gets off."

Arno laughs too, sound coming out raspy.

"Got it. Only tits for you."

Max snorts.

"Not only. That throat fucking looks awesome too," Max nods at the TV. "My hole's strictly for shitting, though." Max shifts a bit, picks up his bottle, takes a swig. Max puts his hand around his cock again. "What about you?"

Arno's fingers are in his hair now. He jumps, startled by the question.

"Uh..." he says and swallows hard, looking at Max, at the screen, the floor, at Max again. "Sorry, I'm... What? I'm thirsty."

Max laughs once more.

"Looks like you shouldn't be having more," Max says, Arno letting go of his cock, giving him the bottle.

He takes a few sips, smiles, shakes his head.

"I uh... It's fine. Just, you know... A bit hot. What... What were you asking?"

Max's lips were wet and minty, and Arno's fingers are in his hair.

"Rough shit," Max explains, grinning at him. "Do you like it? Choking, hair pulling. Spitting in the bitch's mouth."

Another guy shoves his cock in, the girl moaning.

He shifts, licks his lips.

"Don't know," he says, shrugging. The remote control is digging into his thigh. Arno's thigh is pressed to his. "I uh... Don't think that's... I haven't done anything like that." He glances at Arno. Arno thumbs the head of his cock, looking at him. "I don't mean..." He gives a shudder. "I don't mean it's bad, you know." Arno hums, nodding. He wraps his fingers around him tighter, moves his hand. Fuck. "Just... Not something I've... I've done. But." He licks his lips, looks at the screen, at Max. The guy on the floor fucks into the girl's pussy, pace fast. "Like if she asks..." Max's half turned to him, hand moving slowly, palm covering the head. "If the girl asks. I'd... I'd do it."

Max laughs out loud, his hand stuttering around his shaft.

"Oh, you're a dog!" Max exclaims, eyeing him, smirking. "Make the bitch ask for it herself. That's a good idea, Ken."

Arno's fingers brush against his balls, and he shudders, exhaling a moan.

Way too loud.

"No, I uh..." he starts, licks his lips, looks at the floor, at Max. "I'm not... I didn't..."

Arno hums, dropping his hand, rolling his balls in his palm.

Fuck.

"That's not what I..." he starts again.

"Consent, right?" Arno says, interrupting him, his voice ringing in his ear. "Like, the girl should be into it and all. Not agreeing just because." Arno's really close to him. His whole body's hot. “Consent is hot.”

Max snorts, shifting a little on the couch.

“Tits are hotter,” Max remarks, picks up the bottle, takes a swig. “Hey, but this chick,” he nods at the screen, wiping his mouth. “This chick’s also got paid.”

The guy lying on the floor grabs the girl’s arms from behind, holding her tight as she jumps on his cock, moaning, another guy's cock in her mouth.

Arno huffs with a smile, his nails scratching at the back of his neck.

“And she did a good job.”

He’s sweaty.

Max leans back, looking at the screen, working his cock rhythmically, and Arno shifts even closer to him, pants rustling.

His breath is loud in his ears.

The camera cuts to showing the cock moving in the girl’s pussy once again.

The guy shakes his cock next to the girl’s face, the girl licking at it. He withdraws. She turns her head, takes another cock in her mouth. Another guy bends, touching her nipples, clit.

The camera cuts again, the guy holding the girl’s head with both his hands, fucking into her mouth.

Max's looking at the screen.

He shivers, hips jerking up, and Arno hums, low, voice ringing in his ears, Arno's close to him, their knees, thighs touching, Arno's arm around his shoulders, fingers in his hair, fingers tugging at his cock, brushing against his balls, his nails catching on his skin, his skin is sweaty, his whole back, pressed to the couch, he wants to rest his head on the back of it, he's thirsty, maybe dizzy, maybe he's drunk too much, like Max's said, he's looking at the screen, the guy is shaking the girl's breast by the nipple while she moves, cock in her pussy, in her mouth, he looks at Max, Arno thumbs the head, his hand is calloused, his hips are jerking up, Arno's pants rustling, loud in his ears, his breathing too, he moans, sound cutting through the soundtrack, he licks his lips, his mouth's dry, Max's lips were wet, minty, tongue in his mouth, remote control pressing into his thigh, cock bumping in his palm, he pushes in Arno's palm, he moans, he's looking at the screen, he's dizzy, Arno's hand tight, calloused, sure around him, he looks at Max.

Max's looking at the screen.

Max's lips were wet, he's licking his, hips jerking up, Arno's palm is sliding up and down, Max's too, it's slick, he must've spit in it, the head is bumping into his fingers, the vein, the sweat, his lips, Max's looking at the screen, face tense, the camera is showing the cock sliding in and out of the girl's mouth, Max's hand covering the head, tugging at his cock, Max swears, under his breath, he feels breathless, his whole body's hot and Arno's too, the remote control, he moans, head falling on the back of the couch, Arno's fingers in his hair, breath on his neck, hand on his cock, it's calloused, nails catching on the skin, he shudders, eyes closing, he's blinking, his mouth's dry, he arches, pushing in Arno's palm, he shifts, his knuckles bump into the remote control, he shakes, his legs are shaking, he's dizzy, he's...

Max looks at him.

Max eyes him up and down, raising his eyebrows at Arno's hand around his cock and smirking, grunting approvingly, and he blushes, feeling how blood rushes to his cheeks.

Max chuckles, about to turn away again.

He lifts his hand.

"I uh..." he says, faint, voice low and breathless, and glances at Max's cock, at his face. "Do you..." His hand shakes, as he holds it in the air between them. "I can, you know... If you want."

Max grins, nodding, and covers his hand with his own when he wraps it around his cock, holding his fingers, guiding him, pressing tight and huffing out a content sound.

The head bumps into his sweaty palm.

Max looks at the screen.

The guy lying on the floor is fucking into the girl, another one spreading her cheeks, brushing his finger over her asshole.

Max squeezes his hand harder and jerks up his hips, speeding up, skin catching on skin.

He licks his lips, head falling on the back of the couch again, eyes closing, mouth dry.

Arno hums into his ear, muttering something. His hand is moving rhythmically around his throbbing cock.

He swallows hard and turns his head to Arno.

Arno's close. He eyes him, pupils blown, and smiles with a corner of his mouth.

 _His_ mouth's dry.

"Uhm..." he says, brushing his fingers against Arno's arm, Max fucking into his palm. His cheeks are burning, lips so dry. "You... You sure you don't..."

Arno smiles wider, shakes his head.

"I don't jerk off to porn, that's my rule," Arno says, cupping his nape, tugging at his hair, thumbing the head, tugging at the shaft.

He gulps down a moan, mouth open, dry.

"Okay. Sorry. Okay."

"Later, maybe?" Arno asks, looking him up and down.

He nods, feeling dizzy.

"Okay. Yeah, okay."

Max curses, thrusting in his palm, holding his fingers tight, face tense, eyes on the screen, the girl is sucking at the guy's balls, another guy pushing his fingers in her asshole as she moves, the guy underneath her fucking into her pussy, Max jerking up his hips, squeezing his hand, Arno's hand in his hair, around him, his legs are shaking, he's sweaty, whole body hot, he can't stop blinking, he's thirsty, head lolling back, eyes closing, he licks his lips, Arno's motions speeding up, he moans, then again, too loud, way too loud, Max cursing, Arno humming in his ear, he turns his head, he's dizzy, he looks at Arno, panting, mouth dry and open, he...

"Coming?" Arno asks, looking right at him.

The girl moans, cutting through the soundtrack, as the guy puts his cock in her ass.

"Uh," he breathes out, jerking up his hips, Arno's hand squeezing his cock, Max squeezing his hand, fucking into his palm. "I uh..."

"Wanna kiss?" Arno asks again, leaning in.

He moans, nodding, mouth hanging open, cock throbbing under Arno's calloused hand.

Arno's lips cover his, they're also wet and his are dry, his mouth's open, Arno's tongue moving inside it, and he moans, shaking, arching off the couch as Max curses, as he says _shit_ , gripping his hand tight and moving it, fast, faster, head bumping in his fingers, he moans, Max spilling in his palm, hot and messy, and Arno's tongue is in his mouth, sliding in and out, hand on his nape, his cock, thumb on the head, rubbing at it, his legs shaking, he arches, grabbing at Arno's hand around him, and comes, his own muffled moan ringing in his ears.

He's dizzy.

He washes his face one more time and wipes it with a towel, turns off the tap. He glances at the mirror, suppressing a shudder, and combs his hair with his fingers, trying to push it away from his face, touches his forehead, mouth, chin, he stands there for a few more seconds, listening to his own breath. He puts the towel back on the hanger.

When he comes back into the room, there's nobody there, the credits rolling down on the screen. He picks up the remote control off the floor, pauses the video, then stops it, the player ejecting the cassete. It feels hot under his fingers as he puts it on top of the player.

His beer bottle is also on the floor, Max's isn't there. He picks up his, collects an empty wrapper from near the window, the ashtray. Max is outside, walking by the pool, on the phone with somebody, gesticulating.

He goes into the kitchen to throw away the trash.

"Oh, fuck, sorry."

Arno's there.

Arno smiles at him, shaking his head and moving his shoulder, his hand moving too, lazily. He's sitting in the chair, sliding down, legs stretched, feet on the red plastic stool Max always puts dirty dishes on. His other hand is on his chest, fingers tracing something on the skin.

"I uh..." The bottle almost slips out and falls on the floor. He manages to catch it at the last moment. Arno looks him up and down, face relaxed. He shivers, tries to smile. "Just wanted to... You know, the trash."

He nods at the stuff he's holding. Arno hums, gesturing with his hand, and he walks past him, throwing the wrapper in the trashcan and putting the bottle next to it, emptying the ashtray.

He straightens up and glances at Arno, not knowing what to do with his hands. Arno lifts his chin a bit, raising his eyebrows.

He shifts on his feet.

"Uhm..." Arno's hand is moving slowly on his cock, fingers drawing patterns on his chest. "Should I..."

He glances at the door, the floor. At Arno.

"You can stay," Arno says, smiling, and puts his feet down, touching the stool with his shoe, offering it to him.

He sits down, Arno spreading his legs wider, to give him space.

His pupils are still blown. His pants are unzipped, pulled down a little, shirt open, and his face looks a bit weird, eyes too dark. He drags his nails up the shaft, runs his fingers over and around it, pace slow and relaxed. His pubic hair is trimmed, but not shaved off entirely. He circles his left nipple, pulls at it. His Adam's apple moves, tongue flicks between his teeth. He exhales, eyes half closed. He cups his balls, rolling them between his fingers, pants rustling, cock on his stomach. He pulls at his nipple once again, drags his nails over the skin, down the tattoo with tulips, lines appearing where there is no ink. He touches the ribs, biting his lower lip. Rubs at his right nipple, exhales, spreads his fingers.

"Do you know it's actually a good luck sign?"

His mouth's dry.

"Uhm... What?"

He shifts on the stool, hands sweaty as he interlocks them, looking up at Arno.

"The swastika," Arno explains, tapping his fingers over the sun cross. "Like, Hindus use it at weddings and so on. Draw them on doors. And it's about sun and beginnings and all the good shit. Like, having babies and starting something new."

Arno wraps his hand around his cock.

"Oh."

"Yeah. And like if it looks the other way, it's tantric. You know what tantra is?"

He looks down, then up again. Arno thumbs the head, turning his wrist a little, tugging at the shaft.

"Is it..." he pauses, licks his lips. "I uh. No, I don't... No."

He shakes his head. Arno chuckles softly.

"It's like about night and rituals and sex. Erotic stuff," Arno traces the sun cross with his index finger. "And check this out, for me it is left-facing. Left arm and heart and everything. Spiritual, you know. So I get both. Sun and life and new stuff for others and night fun for me. That's what it is about. Not about Nazies and whatever it is they tell us."

"Oh," he says. Arno keeps his fingers around his cock while he explains, grip loose, motions slow. "I uh... No, I didn't know."

Arno hums.

He looks at the floor, at Arno's shoes, toes grazed and worn, at Arno's bright green pants, wide, only his knees visible under them. He swallows, glancing up.

Arno's rolling his balls between his fingers, cock pressed flat to his stomach, lolling a little to the left, showing the trail of trimmed hair running up to his navel. Arno lifts his hand, wrapping it around the shaft, pressing on it a bit, then tugging at the foreskin at the underside, pulling it upwards, toward the head, putting his thumb on it, rubbing at the slit.

He bites his lips, making a quiet sound.

Arno's pants rustle.

"Wanna help me?" Arno asks.

He shivers, mouth dry again. Arno's looking at him with hooded eyes, dark under the lashes.

He feels his hand tremble, motionless and sweaty in the air. Feels something hot running down the back of his neck.

"I uh..." he says. He nods.

Arno smiles, extending his palm.

"Here," Arno says, when he puts his in it. Arno wraps it around the shaft. "Like this. Slowly, you know. Don't press into it. Okay?"

He nods once more.

"Cool. No need to rush. Plateau is the most important part."

Arno's cock is smooth and warm under his fingers.

"S-sure."

Arno hums, biting his lower lip, and leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wider.

He moves his hand, as gently as he can, and Arno's hips jerk up slightly, Arno letting out a low moan. His hand is calloused.

Arno lifts his, both of them, and puts them on his chest, running his palms up and down the ribs, then rubbing at the nipples, his Adam's apple bobbing.

He feels the veins on Arno's cock under his touch. He tries to trace them with his fingertips.

"Shit," Arno says, voice raspy. "Touch the balls."

He drops his hand, palming the balls, rolling them between his fingers, trying to do it the way Arno did.

"Yeah," Arno says.

He shifts. He lifts his right hand, pauses for a second, then puts it around the shaft, still touching Arno's balls with his left, pulling carefully at the skin.

"Yeah, like that, good."

He licks his dry lips.

Arno pinches his nipples between his fingers, pulling at them, twisting them a little.

The white line from his nail next to his left one is gradually going red.

He licks his lips again.

He's...

"Been thinking about getting them pierced," Arno says suddenly, and he jumps, hand stuttering around Arno's cock. "What do you think?"

He looks up at Arno, confused.

He's dizzy.

"I uh..." he says. "Sorry. What?"

Arno nods at his own chest, pulling at the nipples.

"These little buds. Like, put some rings in them. I've had some problems with my eyebrows, when I had them pierced, so not sure. But, you know. It's really hot, right?"

Arno's cock twitches under his fingers.

"Uhm..." He's blushing. "Yeah. Yeah."

Arno smiles.

"Can you spit on it?"

He's dizzy and he's blushing and he's sweaty and he doesn't understand a single word and Arno's voice is ringing in his ears.

Arno's looking at his own cock, at his hands on it.

His hands are shaking.

"Like, slick it up a bit," Arno adds.

His mouth's dry.

He shifts, the stool creaking under him. He spits on Arno's cock, twice, saliva thick and sticky. He smears it over the shaft, Arno moaning, his cock throbbing.

"Fuck, yeah," Arno says, eyeing him up and down, smiling at him, gaze unfocused. "That's perfect, dude. You've got great hands."

His hands are sweaty.

"Uh, thanks," he says, cupping the balls, pulling at the shaft, foreskin moving, smooth under his fingers. "I uh... It's not too rough, is it? I uh... I mean, I'm. I'm a drummer, so..."

His hands are calloused and so were Arno's, but he is a drummer and he doesn't know what Arno does and Arno grins, shaking his head at him.

"No, man, it's perfect. Let me see it."

He blinks, Arno's hips jerking up rhythmically.

"Your good one."

He licks his lips, feeling the taste of sweat on his tongue. He lifts his hand, giving it to Arno.

"Ha, you're a leftie," Arno says, thumbing his palm, nails grazing the skin. "Cool. Wow." Arno leans forward, pulling his hand closer to his face. "Damn it. That's like the shortest life line I've ever seen. Like, it's on your wrist and that's it. Weird. I mean, yeah, you're chill and everything, but... You aren't shy."

Arno's rubbing at the center of his palm, thoughtfull, in circles, tingles reaching his fingertips.

"I uh..." he says, smiles. "I think I am." He feels Arno push a little in his palm. "It's... It's a bit hard for me. To talk to people. Like... When there're a lot of them. And..."

Arno's pants rustle as he shifts, moving closer to him. His hand slips, fingers pulling awkwardly at the shaft. He adjusts the grip, trying to find the pace again.

"Hm," Arno hums, still studying his hand. "Alright. I wouldn't have guessed. Hm." He traces several lines on his palm, then lets go. "Still weird. Like, okay, I'm not a professional or anything, but..." He shrugs, leans back, relaxing. "Whatever. But you should get a proper reading. Like, maybe they'll figure it out. Weird."

He swallows, nodding, vision going a bit blurry.

Arno closes his eyes after a second, tongue flicking between his lips, and he looks down, seeing that Arno puts his hands back on his chest out of the corner of his eye.

The stool creaks under him again.

He bends, spits on Arno's cock one more time, wipes his mouth, saliva sticky. He smears it around, Arno swearing, muttering under his breath, his cock twiching, the skin of his scrotum going taut, balls feeling heavy in his palm.

His mouth's dry.

He feels sweat running down the back of his neck, under the hair, he sways, licking his dry lips, looking at Arno's cock between his fingers, the veins, trimmed hair, foreskin, head, his own hand moving around it - and too fast, it is too fast, and he tries to slow down, fingers trembling, he looks at the head, foreskin touching the edge of it, smooth under his fingers, he thumbs it, shivering, and Arno's hips jerk up, Arno pushing in his palm, breathing out _yeah_ , voice low, he runs his fingers over the shaft, nails too short and blunt, hands sweaty, skin slick, Arno rocking his hips rhythmically, the stool creaking under him as he moves closer, he moves his hands, he...

"Hey, is that how you know Max?" Arno asks.

He jumps, almost falling of the stool, letting go of Arno's cock, wiping his face, pushing his hair off it, inhaling sharply.

"I'm..." he says, looking down at his own body, and shifts, trying to find a more stable position. "Sorry. Sorry, I didn't... I think I've drunk too much. Just..." He swallows, glancing at Arno's face, and wraps his palm around him again. "I didn't... What did you ask? About Max?"

Arno hums under his touch, sliding down the chair, pushing in his palm.

"Yeah, right," Arno nods, rubbing at his shoulders. "Like, you said you were a drummer. So. Is that how you met? Like, is he your agent or?"

He smiles, shakes his head.

"No, no," he says, cupping Arno's balls, moving his hand slowly, trying to find the pace. "I uh... He doesn't work with this type of music. You know, the kind the band I'm in plays." Arno hums again, nodding, rocking his hips. "We just met at a party and... He knew who I... Like, the band. The band I'm in. It's kinda famous? So... He knew who I was and we... We hang out sometimes? Like that."

"Oh," Arno says, pursing his lips, stretching, arching on the chair. "I see. And what kind of music do you guys play?"

He swallows, licking his lips, hands slipping with Arno's motions, skin slick, grip getting loose.

"Rock?" he offers, shivering, Arno's body relaxing, Arno pushing in his palm, cock sliding up and down in it. "Not classic." He exhales a short laugh. "Like, metal? Something like it."

Arno nods, humming, spreads his legs again, leaning back.

"Do you mind speeding up?" Arno asks, looking him up and down. "You aren't tired, are you?"

He blinks, not following, hands stuttering, Arno's cock twitching under his fingers.

"Uhm..." he starts, his cheeks feeling hot.

"Like that, okay?" Arno says, covering his hand with his own, adjusting his grip and showing him the pace. "I'm ready for the final stage."

He smiles, bites his lips.

"Oh," he says, then nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'm not... You know, I'm a drummer. So..." He laughs again, trailing off. "Okay. I'm not tired. It's... Like this? Is it good?"

"Yeah," Arno says, as he moves his hand, faster now, Arno moving too, pushing in his palm. "Sure. That's just right, Ken."

He shivers, breath hitching, Arno's cock twitching in his palm.

"I uh..." he says, Arno putting his hands back on his chest. "Ginger. That's... That's my nickname."

"Oh," Arno says, glancing at him, his hands, eyelashes fluttering, eyes dark. "Uh-huh. Sweet."

He swallows and licks his lips, tightening his grip and speeding up, rolling Arno's balls in his palm, thumbing the head.

Arno slides down, closing his eyes, making a content sound, rocking his hips and rubbing at his nipples.

He feels Arno's cock throbbing under his touch.

He smiles, looking at him.

"We should do it again, you know," Arno says, swinging his arm around his shoulders and patting him. "Was fucking great."

He laughs softly, glancing at him, wiping the water off his hands with a towel.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I uh... I'd love to."

Arno smiles too, huffing out air.

"Cool," he says, palm sliding down his back. "That's cool, man."

Arno steps away a little, letting him turn around.

"Come on then?" Arno offers, nodding at the door. "Let's go find Max. Let's see what he's up to."

"Sure," he says. "Of course."

Max is standing by the pool, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yeah, yeah," he says into the phone, sighing. "Yeah, I got it, darling. Oh, fuck. Okay. Alright. Elaine, alright, I got it. Sorry. Yeah, I'll be there. Sure. Sure. Yeah. Okay. See you on Monday."

He puts the phone down, exhales loudly, rubs at his face.

"Fuck," he says, looking around, kicking the beer bottle with his shoe. "Fucking bitch."

Arno smirks, walking closer to him.

"Who's that?"

Max turns to look at them, quirking his lips.

"My ex," he says, voice irritated. "Fuck. Never get married, guys. Not worth it. Bitches just whine and take all your money."

Arno laughs.

"Never planned to."

Max huffs out a laugh too, rubs at the back of his neck again.

"Whatever," Max says and bends, picking up the bottle. "Hey, I was on the phone with Kristin, remember her?" Max turns back to Arno after he nods. "You don't know her yet, but she's alright. She's throwing a party tonight. You guys wanna go? Gonna be really cool. Like, hot chicks and booze and so on. What do you say? Should I call us a taxi?"

Arno nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, sure. Sounds awesome."

"You bet it will be," Max says, starting to dial the number. "And you? I told her you'd be coming."

Ginger smiles, glancing at the pool, at Max and Arno.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course."

"Great," Max says, pressing the phone to his ear. "Let's go rock it, guys. Time to have some fun."

___________________________________________________________________________________________________


	3. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning 1: some people are assholes.
> 
> Warning 2: homophobic remarks, internalized homophobia, possibly questionable dirty talk.
> 
> Warning 3: I play zero musical instruments and barely understand what a chord is. All the lingo's been stolen by me from videos of John 5 (may the void bless him) talking about guitars generously provided to the public by youtube.
> 
> Useful info: shit might get confusing, but that's sexual fantasies and unreliable narrator for you. I am always more than happy to explain the said shit.
> 
> Oh, and sometimes I also forget there was come eating. It's there. :)

***

"Hey, John!"

The voice startles him as John gets up from the seat, picking up his guitar. He jumps a little, turning.

A reflection of Daniel's bomber jacket displaces John's on the smooth surface. John takes a step back, hand on the edge of the table.

"Hi."

Daniel smiles at him, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his jeans.

"What's up? How is it going?"

"Just, you know..." John shrugs, glancing at his guitar. There is his hair. Scarf. His cheek. His shoulder, moving. "Came in to drink something before practice."

Daniel hums, nodding.

"That's cool. I'm waiting for Kevin, we're gonna... Like, he wanted to buy something for his bike and stuff. Wanna join us?"

John offers him a smile, shakes his head.

"Thanks. But..." He lifts his guitar a bit, showing it do Daniel. Denim. Bracelet. Nail polish. "I really need to practice, so..."

"Oh," Daniel says. "Okay. I see." He lifts his hand, rubbing at the back of his neck, rocking on his heels. "Hey, I just wanted to ask..." he trails off.

His denim jacket. Patches. Hair. A woman walks by, and John turns his head to Daniel.

"What?"

"Like..." Daniel moves his shoulders. "The party. Why did you leave so early?"

John wets his lips.

"Just felt a bit tired."

Daniel shifts, smiling a little.

"Oh. I just thought... Like, did you like it? I mean, I told the guys to ease up on the booze and just have fun, so. But then you left and Billy was asking why and---"

"I don't think Billy heard you about the booze."

Daniel huffs out a laugh, rubs at his chin.

"Yeah, he's a bit... Whatever. I just hope you liked it, you know. Was everything alright?"

"Yeah," John says, lets go of his guitar, straightens the sleeve of his jacket. "It was okay. I just felt tired. That's all."

Daniel rubs at his wrists, puts his hands in his pockets.

"Okay. That's good. I mean, that you liked it. I just... We're gonna have another one. This Saturday. Do you wanna come?"

John turns his head away, looking around the diner.

"Saturday?" I uh... I can't. There is this riff I'm trying to work on..."

"Well, after that? You know, it's a party. We probably won't even start by the time you finish."

John sighs, then smiles at Daniel.

"I usually stay up late. When playing. So..."

Daniel nods, takes half a step back. John lets go of the table. Scarf. Jacket. Hair, his hoop earring covered by it.

"Okay. Got it. But like... If you feel like it. After your practice. Just come join us, okay?"

John shrugs.

"Maybe. I guess I am not a party person, you know."

He picks up his guitar again, wrapping his palm around the neck, lifting it off the table, tucks his hair behind his ear.

Daniel shifts again, straightens the collar of his bomber.

"Uhm..." he starts.

John looks at him expectantly, raising his eyebrows.

"Are you free later today?" Daniel asks. "Like, we could... Oh. You've..." He lifts his hand, moving closer. "You've got something in your hair."

John shivers, Daniel's fingers brushing against his temple.

John looks at the red thread Daniel is showing him.

John shivers again, shakes his head, lips quirking.

"Thank you. But. About today... I don't really go to that many parti---"

"Oh, no," Daniel cuts him short, the thread still in his hand. "No parties. Just, you know..." He wraps it around his index finger, looks up at John. "We could hang out? Go to the cinema or something. To that old drive-in, if you want. There should be something on tonight. Or... We can just drive around. Listen to some music. No booze."

He looks at John, waiting for his reply.

Nail polish. Bracelet. Scarf.

John adjusts his grip around the neck, touches the scarf. Daniel looks at him, rubbing at his own wrist, fiddling with his watch.

"Okay," John says. "Yeah. Okay."

Daniel smiles, nods.

"Cool," he pats John's shoulder, hand lingering. "Okay. When should I pick you up? Like, nine? Ten?"

His denim jacket. Scarf. Guitar. His hand. Daniel's hand on his shoulder. A boy runs by.

"Ten's alright," John says.

"Great," Daniel says, patting him one more time, and puts both his hands in his pockets. "Okay. See you later then."

"See you."

John watches Daniel leave, waving at him from the door.

John glances at the table, the seat, adjusts his scarf. An old lady in a hat. Guy on a bicycle. Patches. John touches his lips, combs his hair with his fingers. Earrings. John picks up his guitar and looks away.

John looks at Daniel, the outro going quieter and fading, an ad coming up.

Daniel smiles at him, still shaking his head to the tune.

"That's an awesome song. Right?"

John turns to him in his seat, smiling too, careful not to smudge his lipstick.

"It's... yeah. The bridge is interesting, the end of it. That shift, you know. Dm, G, Am... You can play around with that a bit."

Daniel huffs out a soft laugh, trying to find another station, static cutting through his voice.

"It's like... light? The music. But the guy's heartbroken and everything and has to hide his feelings because she doesn't care. It's... powerful? That _that was just a dream_ thing."

"Oh," John breathes out. "I uh... I didn't listen to the lyrics much."

Daniel nods, turns off the radio and looks at him, putting his arm on the back of the seat.

"Haven't you heard it before? It's really popular right now. Top of all charts."

John shrugs, shakes his head.

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

"Okay," Daniel says, propping his head on his elbow. "I really like it. Speaks to me, you know. Do you... do you think you could play it?"

John smiles, squinting a little at the lights of the car that's passing by.

"Of course." Lipstick. Hoop earrings. His eyes look almost black, eyeshadow around them. "It's pretty simple. So... I can, yeah."

Daniel hums. John turns to him again.

"Great. I'd love that."

Daniel looks at him, eyes lingering. His neck. Mouth. He lifts his hand, touching his hair, brushing his fingers against his cheek.

John bites his lips.

Daniel puts his fingers on his chin and leans in.

"I'm..."

Daniel stops, John's palm covering his thigh.

"Yeah?" he asks and shifts, removes his hand. "Is everything okay?"

John nods, inhaling, a bit too sharp.

"Yeah," he says, his fingers moving slowly on Daniel's leg, nails caching at the fabric of his jeans. "Of course."

Daniel swallows, looking at him.

"Okay."

John feels how he shivers under his touch. He shifts closer, moves up his hand.

Daniel exhales, loud.

John's fingers brush against his zipper, tug at the hoodie that's tied around his waist.

"Can you?" John asks, glancing down.

"Sure," Daniel says, just looking at him for a second.

He unties the sleeves, pushing them to the sides.

John smiles.

He undoes the button, finds the slider and tugs at it, the soft sound loud in the silence.

"Shit," Daniel mutters under his breath.

John pulls him out, half hard already.

He wraps his palm around him and thumbs the head, Daniel looking at him.

His eyes, a hint of eyelashes. Hair, earrings. His choker. Neck.

John bends, as the lights of another car fade into the distance.

"Shit," Daniel says again.

He feels a bit salty in John's mouth. John takes him deeper.

They sit side by side.

Daniel says _hi_ and waves at him, he eases John's guitar out of his hands and puts it down, says _I'll keep an eye on it for you_. John sits down, side by side with him.

He can't quite hear the song behind the voices.

John pulls up a bit, wrapping his hand around Daniel's cock, mouthing at the head.

"Fuck," Daniel says.

Daniel says _he's so good at it. Yeah_ , Billy asks, looking at him with a smile. _Yeah, like crazy_ , Daniel says, moving his fingers fast, as if he's playing guitar. John laughs, Daniel patting his shoulder, Billy giving him a thumbs up.

John listens to the song, shaking his head to it.

There's a bar table in the corner of the room, some people leaning on it, chatting. That girl there, that's... Sarah? There is a cocktail in her hand, her painted nails long and pointy. There're pizza boxes on the armchair. A door gets open, somebody walks by, laughing. The song comes to the solo, that D and G combination. There're some clothes on the table, bottles, mirror, half-closed by all the stuff. Daniel smiles at him. Somebody stops the song. The guys in the corner are doing arm wrestling, swearing. The side of the cupboard is smooth and shiny. Kevin's knee bumps into his as he gets up. _Sorry_ , Kevin tells him. John nods. Somebody puts on another song.

His hoop earring. The collar of his shirt. Sarah comes closer, saying _hi_ , asking him something. _Yeah, it's great_ , John says.

"Fuck, John," Daniel says, hips jerking up, cock sliding further, down John's throat.

John stops, wiping his mouth, holding Daniel's cock in his hand. He shivers, there is this warm sensation spreading through the back of his neck and shoulders. His breathing's heavy, Daniel's is too. He shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"John, I uh..." Daniel starts.

John bends, taking him back in his mouth. A moan almost slips off his lips.

"Fuck, John," Daniel says.

Daniel says _hey, do you want anything_. The choker on his neck. His shirt. Daniel's shoulder. _No, thanks_ , John says. He brushes his hair away from his face. _Chips, crackers_ , Daniel offers, nodding at the packages. John shakes his head. _I'm not hungry_ , John says, smiling, Daniel's eyes lingering on his lips.

Somebody cheers, some people sing along.

 _Just give him a beer_ , Billy says.

John exhales, loud, feeling a rush of blood to his face. Daniel mutters something, swearing, shifting in his seat, hips bucking.

 _I don't drink_ , John says. _Oh_ , Billy says, eyeing him up and down.

John drags his tongue over Daniel's length, slicking it up, moves his hand, his own saliva on his fingers.

His fingers tucking his hair behind his ear, nails painted. Hoop earring. Bracelets. _We can get you a cocktail_ , Daniel offers.

John pushes down, Daniel's hand landing on his nape. John's cock twitches in his jeans, hard between his legs.

 _Like the one Stacey's having_ , Daniel says. _There's no booze in there._

John moans, Daniel's cock throbbing in his mouth.

 _Okay_ , John says. _Thank you._

Daniel spreads his fingers in his hair, tugs, then pushes him.

Billy chuckles.

His eyeshadow, eyes looking almost black. Lips. Neck. Daniel's hand giving him the glass. Lips. The glass. His eyes.

John moans.

"Shit," Daniel says. "Shit, sorry. I'm sorry." Daniel lets go of his hair, shivers. "Are you okay?"

 _Where is the bathroom_ , John asks Daniel.

John breathes heavily. His head is spinning.

"I'm..."

John washes his hands, combs his hair. He finds the tube of mascara in his pocket. His lashes. Eyeshadow. The choker on his neck. His lips.

Daniel's hand brushes against his cheek.

"John, are---"

He sways a little on his feet, some guy bumping into him on his way out. Daniel waves at him from the couch.

"Fine," John breathes out, licks his lips. "You can. Just..."

Daniel is holding his cocktail in his hand. Billy is talking, telling something, gesticulating, Daniel nodding.

John moves his hand around Daniel's cock, glancing up.

"Just..."

Fuck him. Just fuck him, fuck his mouth, hold his head and push inside, just...

A car passes by.

Just make him take it, make him swallow, fuck him, make him suck, they way you like it, just...

John takes Daniel's hand in his own and puts it on his nape.

"It's fine," he says. Just fuck his mouth, his throat, push him on your cock and make him drool, make him suck you, just use him, just... "You can. I like it."

John bends, taking Daniel in his mouth. Moans.

Just use him, use him like a... like a fucking...

"Fuck," Daniel says, his fingers in his hair, tugging, pressing, pushing him down.

 _And what did he say_ , Daniel asks, shifting, giving John his cocktail. John sits down, smiling at him.

 _Thanks_ , John says.

Daniel's cock is sliding in and out of his mouth. John moans.

Billy chuckles, shrugging.

Daniel's hips jerk up, John's throat contracting, Daniel's hand pushing on his nape, his hands on his thighs, his body feeling light and hot, that warm sensation, his lips so wet around Daniel's cock, saliva running down his chin.

 _Nothing_ , Billy says, chuckling, shrugging. _What could he say_ , Billy asks, gesticulating.

John moans, his cock throbbing in his jeans, wedged between his legs, pressed against the zipper.

 _He's just a cocksucker_ , Billy says. D9, D, Dsus, D, Dsus, D9...

"Fuck," Daniel mutters, hand hot, heavy on his nape. "That's so good."

 _Cocksuckers can't say anything_ , Billy says. Eyeshadow. Choker. His fingers, hair, nail polish, earring, lips.

"Yeah, like that," Daniel says, guiding his head, pushing him down, deeper, his cock sliding down his throat. "Shit. So good. Just like that."

 _There is always a dick in their mouth_ , Billy says. The glass. The cocktail. Daniel's shoulder, moving, hand, hair. John takes a sip. His neck. Cheeks.

"Fuck, yeah," Daniel says, jerking up his hips, cock slick, sliding between his lips, fingers tugging at his hair. "Fuck. John. Good boy."

Daniel laughs.

 _Right_ , he says, smirking at Billy.

John moans out loud, Daniel fucking into his mouth, holding his head, swearing, his hand, his hands hot and heavy, holding him, holding him in place, pulling his hair, fucking his throat, just holding him and fucking him, his mouth, wet, slick, saliva running down his chin, pushing him down, just using him, just...

The passing car lights up the interior, the dashboard, seat, hoodie, steering wheel, jeans, his face, hair, his mouth around the cock.

John moans.

Daniel laughs, says _right_ , John swallowing his cocktail.

Daniel pushes him out as Billy parks the car, leaving the headlights on. _Hello_ , Billy says, smirking at him. He's naked, on his knees. Choker. Daniel pushes him down on his knees, tugs at his hair, makes him look up. _Sweetie_ , Billy says, touching his face, smudging his lipstick.

"God, fuck," Daniel says, panting, fucking into his mouth, hands on his head, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. "So fucking good."

John moans, swallowing his own saliva, the head of Daniel's cock sliding down his throat.

 _Do you want him_ , Daniel asks Billy, holding him by his hair. Headlights. Lipstick. Choker. Eyeshadow. _Do you want to fuck this dirty cocksucker_ , Daniel asks, Billy pulling at his choker. Headlights. His neck. Mouth. Daniel puts a finger in his mouth.

Daniel's fingers touch the corners of John's mouth.

"Yeah, fuck, yes," Daniel says, pushing deeper, faster, John's lips wet. "You're so good. Fuck, just like that."

John moans, shaking, nails scratching at Daniel's jeans, knees weak.

 _Good little whore_ , Billy says, looking down at him. He's on his knees. Naked. Headlights. Choker. Mouth open. He's sucking Billy's thumb, his lipstick smudged. _Oh yeah, he's a cocksucker_ , Daniel says, laughing, tugging at his hair. J _ust wants to suck our dicks, you know_ , Daniel says, holding his chin. _To swallow our loads_ , Daniel says, patting his cheek. _Wants us to use him like a fuckhole_ , Daniel says, making him look up.

Eyeshadow. Headlights. His eyes are almost black. Mouth open, lipstick, all smudged. Tears. There're tears in his eyes. Billy unzips his pants. He's on his knees, they're holding him.

 _Right, you cockslut_ , Daniel asks him.

John moans.

"God, fuck," Daniel says, hips jerking up, pace fast. "So good. Fuck, your fucking mouth. Fuck, yeah. Like that. Good boy. So good."

John feels his cock throbbing, sliding down his tongue, his throat, lips wet, slick, sounds loud, Daniel holding his head.

John moans.

 _Yes_ , he says, looking up at them. _Please_ , he says, he's naked on his knees, his mouth open. They laugh at him. Eyeshadow. His choker. Lipstick. There're tears in his eyes. _Please, fuck my mouth_ , he says. _I am a cocksucking slut_ , he says. _Just use me like you want_ , he says.

Daniel laughs, Kevin, Stacey, the guy on his right, they laugh, Billy gesticulating, smirking, pointing between his legs.

"Oh fuck, fuck, yes," Daniel says, pressing on his nape hard, pushing him down, hips jerking up, cock deep in his throat. "Fuck, John, yes."

John moans, loud, low, Daniel's come spurting down his throat, his body light, face hot, hands and knees shaking.

John moans, Daniel fucking into his mouth, coming in it, holding him in place.

They laugh.

"Fuck," Daniel says, sliding down his seat, head falling on the back of it. "Wow."

John shifts, shivering, sitting up. His whole face is wet.

"Wow," Daniel says, exhaling, turning his head to him. "Fuck, John. That was---"

Lights flicker in the distance.

"Do you have a napkin?" John asks, cutting him short.

"Oh," Daniel says, exhales one more time, touching his forehead. "Uhm..." He moves, rakes his fingers through his hair, drops his hand. "Uhm, yeah... In the... Fuck." He sits up, turning to John. "There. Fuck. Wait."

Daniel turns on the reading lights, opens his glove compartment.

"Here," he says, giving John the napkins. "Fuck. Wow."

John wipes his face, turning the rear-view mirror, angling it towards himself. His lipstick, smudged, mascara running. Saliva. Sweat. Come on his chin. His eyes, looking almost...

"Sorry," Daniel says, smiling at him. "That I... Your make up."

John glances at him, shakes his head, wipes his face with the napkin.

"It's fine."

Daniel exhales loudly, leaning back, relaxing in his seat. He looks at his hands and cock still hanging out of his jeans, stains of John's lipstick on his skin.

John sees how he smiles absent-mindedly out of the corner of his eye. His eyes, looking almost black. Lips, swollen, face a bit red. His hair, messy, earrings covered by it. Eyeshadow. His lashes, fluttering. He finds the tube of lipstick in his pocket.

"Hey, I uh..." Daniel starts.

His jawline. Neck. His choker. Lips.

"Where can I put it?" John asks, showing Daniel the napkin.

Daniel blinks at him, shifting in his seat, shoulders moving.

"Uhm..." he makes a vague gesture. "Just... Throw it out of the window?"

John nods.

John takes the lipstick out of his pocket, uncaps it, tilting the mirror once again.

Daniel's looking at him.

His lips. Neck. Down his body. His legs.

John shifts, lifts his other hand, turning on the radio.

"Oh, that's a good one," John says.

The sound of a song he's never heard before fills the car.

His lips, parted, mouth slightly open, lipstick on them. Chin. His jawline. He tucks his hair behind his ears. He smiles.

"The tempo's perfect here," John says.

Daniel's looking at him.

John throws the napkin out of the window, putting the lipstick back in his pocket, he leans back in his seat and tries to shake his head to the tune.

Daniel's looking at him, his face and neck and...

"What... What color is it?"

John frowns, glancing at him.

"The..." Daniel lifts his hand, gesturing something in the air. "Your lipstick. Looks great. Don't know, like... plum? What color is it?"

His hoop earrings. Choker. Hair. Lips.

The lights of the car fade in the distance.

"Don't know, like, burgundi or something," John says, turning to Daniel again. "My girlfriend bought it for me, so... I just like the shade."

"Oh," Daniel breathes out. He rubs at the back of his neck, looks down, then at him again. "You... You have a girlfriend?"

His lips. Chin. His neck, throat moving.

"Yeah?" John shrugs, voice cutting through the song. "Of course."

"Oh."

Choker. Hair. His earrings. That stupid song with only two chords in it.

"What's... What's her name?" Daniel asks, fumbling with the hoodie, pulling it from under himself.

Stains of John's lipstick on his skin.

"Jane."

Daniel smiles at him, zipping up his pants.

"That's cool. John and Jane. Is she..."

"Yeah?" John raises his eyebrows.

His eyes, eyeshadow, his lashes. Nose. Lips. He flicks his tongue over his lips.

Daniel moves his shoulders.

"Like, how does she look? Is she hot?"

John huffs out a laugh, tilts forward, fiddles with the radio.

"She's my girlfriend. So..."

Daniel laughs too, shifting, closer to him, putting his arm on the back of the seat again.

"I'd love to meet her. You know, like... hang out together? The three of us."

John quirks his lips as Daniel looks at him, John shakes his head, touches his own hand with his fingers, straightens his sleeves.

"I don't think she'd want that."

His lips and lipstick. A flick of tongue. A flash of teeth.

"Oh," Daniel says, turning his head down. "I see. Okay."

His fingers in his hair. Nail polish. Bracelet. Ink. Daniel, gaze on the floor. John adjusts the rear-view mirror, turning it away. Daniel, gaze on him. _It's time to get romantic._ Static. Fmaj7. F6. C9. Daniel, hand in the air.

"Uhm, I..."

John turns off the radio.

"Can you drive me home now?" His earring. Jawline. Lashes. "I promised to do something for the guys. Don't wanna be late with it."

His eyes looking almost black.

"Oh," Daniel says, then pauses, swallows, looking at him. "Okay." He nods, smiles at him, sits up. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

He starts the car. Turns on the headlights.

John blinks.

John turns away.

John is looking in the distance.

"Thank you," John says, opening the door.

The house is dark.

"No problem," Daniel says. "Thank you too. It was great today, you know. I really... I really liked it. Spending time with you."

John offers him a smile, holding the door open.

"So... See you around? You know where to find me. And... come to the party, okay?"

John's eyelashes flutter as he nods.

"Sure."

The house is dark, all of his mates must be still out, he takes off his shirt right there in the corridor, he goes upstairs, turns on the lights, entering the bathroom, opening the tap.

He undresses, he combs his hair with his fingers, takes off his earrings, wipes his mouth with his palm, smearing his face with lipstick, listening to the sound of the running water.

When the steam fills the room entirely, there is only a faint silhouette of his figure in the mirror, just blurry stains of color, black and white, burgundi, and when there is just that reflected at him in the mirror, John turns away and stops looking in it, it's only then when the running water hits his skin.

***

"Wow. That's crazy."

The voice startles him as John goes through the lick, the sound of it interrupting the flow, and he lifts his head, wrinkling his nose, squinting at the sunlight, his hair brushed away from his face with the motion.

There is a guy with dreadlocks standing there in front of him, looming over. The guy is wearing glasses.

John quirks his lips and looks down, the guy's shadow right on the soundboard. His fingers slide up and down the neck, the tune more rhythmic now. He closes his eyes, shaking his head, feeling his hair brushing against his face.

"Wow," the guy says again.

John bites down a huff, finishing the sequence, turning his wrist just so at the end of it.

The guy shifts on his feet. The guy is wearing old black sneakers, toes worn and dusty.

The guy's shadow reaches all the way to John's hands, crossing the concrete between them.

John pauses, adjusts his grip, starts another melody, his picking growing faster, the sound pulsing in his mind, his eyelashes fluttering as he is about to close his eyes again.

"Damn it, how are you even doing that? Are you even human?"

John puffs out a burst of air, lifting his head, looking at the guy. Hems of his pants touching the ground, wrinkled, fabric pale around the knees. Loose T-shirt, some graffiti prints on it. A mess of chains and threads around his neck. John moves his shoulders, the corner of his mouth twitching as he glances at the guy's face. Stretched lobes. A mess of dreadlocks. Nose piercing. Glasses.

It's just John thinks that if he is here playing, then it is exactly what he wants to be doing.

It's just John doesn't know how to answer that.

The guy is smiling at him.

John moves his shoulders once again in some sort of a gesture, hoping that it'll be enough, and turns away, looking at the tuning keys, shiny in the sunlight, his fingers on the second fret and fourth, then third, his nail polish, second one more time, the sound thicker, denser, then up and up again, then...

"Wow, what was that?" the guy's voice cuts through the chord, John dropping his hand to the middle of the fretboard, picking up from another place. "I've never heard anything like that before."

John shakes his head, swaying with the melody, eyes on the soundboard.

"It's mine," he says, angling the pick. Knuckles. Nail polish. Soundboard. Ink. The shadow. Shoelaces, old, ends shabby. Nail polish. Wrist, turning. "The song. It's my own. So..."

He goes on, right through the alternating segment based around the B, speeding up and slowing down, then sliding, starting with the main riff he came up with.

It's just he wrote it last week, so of course nobody's heard anything like that before.

The guy laughs, his shadow moving.

"I've no idea what you're doing."

John bites his lip, hitting D on G string and then B on fourteenth fret through E, because that is what he's doing, seeing how the guy puts his backpack on the ground and sits down on it out of the corner of his eye.

Knuckles, scratches on them. Blunt nails, stains of something on his fingers. A missing button on the sleeve. The shadow is shorter now. Go back down, C, then D, then up again and hold. His pick. The A string. Sunlight. Nail polish.

"And I thought I could play."

Tuning keys. E minor. His fingers, moving. Arpegios. John licks his lips. Then maybe all the way behind the nut.

"Just wanna cut my hands off now and throw away my guitar. I've no idea how you can play like this."

John takes a deep breath, looking up.

The guy is sitting there on the ground, slouching, tilted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes on his fingers. B, then fifth of E. Dreadlocks, messy, overgrown. Sticky ends. Glasses.

"I just knew that this is what I wanted to be doing from the start."

His pinky on the D, F sharp, B again. Wrist. Ink. Fingers.

"I just love what I do."

The guy is following his motions, biting his lower lip.

The guy huffs out a laugh. D, F sharp, A, D.

"Damn, that's awesome."

His teeth are yellow.

He tilts his head, his fingers moving, nails blunt and dirty. Wrong.

E, G, then picking, D.

Wrong again.

John looks away, sweeping down, sliding. Then a bit of gain. Tuning keys. His nail polish. Sunlight. Up. Glasses.

"Wow. Seriously, I don't get it. What are you even doing here?"

John throws his head back, going through harmonics, hand flying up and down the neck.

"Like, why are you on the street? You should be on stage."

The guy is staring at him. Neck. Chin. Choker.

John huffs, dropping his head, lips quirking, he drags his fingers over the strings, adjusting his grip.

"I'm in a band." He touches the key, then tucks his hair behind his ear. "I'm not... _working_ here." Scratched knuckles. Nails. Pale fabric. "It's not even my guitar." The guy has some stubble on his chin. "Just borrowed it."

E minor. Open E.

"Oh."

Hammering at G. Jawline. Neck.

"Shit, sorry. That was... kinda dumb of me."

John lowers his head, hair covering his face. Sliding to the G. Lips.

"Just... This is amazing. The songs, your hands. Just everything..."

John moves with the tune, eyelashes fluttering. Mouth.

"Like, just unbelievable."

B, C, D, back down.

"Just hope..." Trill. John smiles, faint. "Hope you don't mind that I stick around."

Dreadlocks, sticky. Stretched lobes. The nose ring. The guy is looking at him. Mouth. Neck. His fingers. B, A, then same on the G string. Nail polish.

"It's okay. I don't."

Sliding to E. His pick. Lips. His fingers on them.

"Thanks," the guy says, shifting, stretching his left leg. His sneaker, dusty, old shoelaces. "I'm Rick, by the way."

The stained fabric slides up a bit, showing his leg.

Down, chromatic, ending on E major. John hums, holding his pick between his lips.

There is a bruise. His socks are green.

B string, third finger. Pull with the G.

"Wow."

John smiles, turning his wrist and elbow, leaning into the sound. Eyelashes. Eyeshadow. A flash of teeth.

"Is that like a bend? Like, two strings?"

John nods, starting the same melody again.

The guy taps his fingers to it, following the movements of his hand up and down the neck.

Wrist. Ink. Open G, B flat. His eyes. John shakes his head, hair brushed away from his face. End on E major. His lips quirk.

"Do you..." The guy is looking at him. "What band are you in? What music do you play?"

John pauses, straightens up, lifting both his hands, smoothing down his hair, palms sliding down the back of his neck. Arms. Ink. Choker. Mouth.

John lets go of the pick, takes it between his fingers, puts it down, moves his shoulders.

"Any music?" B flat, hitting on the B and E, thumb, hammer onto the B. "I'm in a... like, metal band right now. It's fine. I called some other guys, metal too, but they like... promised the place to somebody else already."

The guy laughs. Bounce the E, G string. Lips. Picking a bit faster. Eyelashes. Neck.

"Their loss."

John smiles. B, G, B, G, sunlight, B, G, his fingers reflected in the soundboard, end on E.

John adjusts his grip, picks up his pick, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

"But I play anything." Twelve, sixteen, eighteen. D, skip to the B, tap, faster. Faster. "It's music. I play what I like. Like, if it sounds cool..."

The guys huffs out a laugh, tilting forward, following his fingers, then glancing up.

"It sure does."

John's mouth quirks. He licks his lips. Hair. Choker.

"I just love music. So... I play anything."

E, F, F sharp, bounce twice on the G, the sound going thinner, spinning, the guy raising his eyebrows as his hand slides up.

"Wow." He rubs at his chin. Nails. Stubble. Glasses. "Damn."

John goes through the lick, moving higher, finishes on E flat, the guy staring at his fingers.

John straightens up again, throwing his head back. Neck. Choker. Lips.

John smiles, tilting his head, shrugging.

The guy huffs out a laugh.

"Damn it." Nose ring. Teeth, yellow. Dreadlocks. "What's..." John drags his pick along the strings. "What's your name?"

John brushes his palm over the back of his neck, touches his cheek. Chin. Lips. His fingers on them.

"John."

He drops his hand, finding the fifth fret, angling his pick.

The guy is looking at him, smiling.

Sharp.

D and G, then to the nut and bend up.

The guy's glasses are catching the sunlight, reflecting it.

His neck, lips, choker, harmonics going up and down, John turns his head, keys, his jawline, earring, he goes through the lick, his hair, neck, to the nut again and bend.

Up and down.

"Wow."

John smiles, nods, then lowers his head and starts another tune, fingers moving on the fretboard. There is this cool weird sound that he...

"Hey, I uh..." the guy starts.

John shivers, purses his lips, hair falling on his face.

The guy clears his throat, John adjusting his grip, just touching the strings with his fingers.

There is this cool weird sound that he makes, that works perfectly here, John's hand moves, sliding up the neck, higher, fourth and fifth, then fifth and sixth, B, F, C, arpegio, short, fast, faster, scrape.

"Wow," the guy says, the sharp spinning sound still ringing in the air.

John smiles.

John fiddles with the pick, tilting his guitar in his hands a bit, figuring out the next melody.

"Hey," the guys starts again. "Can I..."

John lifts his head, glancing at him, hair brushed away from his face.

The guy is looking at him over his glasses, dreadlocks sticky, messy. Yellow teeth.

"Can I like... buy you a drink?"

John looks down, at his pick, flipping it, sweeps it over the strings, fingers sliding all the way to the nut.

John shrugs.

"I don't drink," John says, turning the tuning keys.

Open E.

John offers the guy a smile, glancing at him from under his eyelashes.

"Just don't like alcohol."

He puts down the pick, fingers on the strings, he bends the B string up, a whole step, then major, half a step, his picking slow on purpose.

"Oh," the guy says.

John sees his mouth twitching out of the corner of his eye, his shoulders moving, the guy is slouching, there is a mess of chains and threads around his neck.

D string, A, just half a step, again, then up, G on fifteenth, and then once more, fast.

The guys shifts, clearing his throat again.

Faster.

"I didn't mean..." John moves a little with the tune, swaying slightly. Smooth. "I just... You're really cute. Or more like... Stunning, actually. Like, your playing and just... everything. How you look." Hair. Fingers. Nail polish. John turns his head to the side. "So I thought... Like, maybe we can get to know each other? If you want to."

Neck. Jawline. Lips.

John's lips quirk as he finishes the melody.

He looks at the guy.

"Oh, I..."

He touches his neck, the back of it, tucks his hair behind his ear.

The guy is wearing glasses.

"I mean, if you're even... attracted to men," he adds.

John bites his lips, his hands somewhat lost on the guitar.

"Oh, I..."

He is attracted to men. He is.

It's just...

John looks down, at his own hands, pulls at the G string.

It's just the guy is wearing glasses.

He's slouching there, sitting on the ground, he's scrawny and his hair is a sticky mess, his teeth are kind of yellow, he isn't John's type, he's wearing dusty sneakers and chains around his neck, there's stubble on his chin, stains on his fingers...

John doesn't want to be rude. He doesn't.

It's just he doubts this guy is anybody's type.

He's wearing glasses, he's bony, his nails aren't very clean, even his stretched lobes look...

It's just why is he hitting on him? John's not attracted to him.

He's smiling at him, showing him his yellow teeth.

He really doesn't want to be rude.

It's just...

"Look, I..." John says slowly, tilting his head and looking down, at his own hands and concrete, seeing the guy's dusty worn sneaker out of the corner of his eye. It's just... "I went through a bad break up a few weeks ago..." His eyes. Eyeshadow. Lashes. Nose, lips, jawline. He didn't. He's single. Choker. Neck. "So, like... I'm trying to take it slow for now? Just take care of myself and so on. I'm not..." John pauses, licking his lips, following the motions of his own fingers on the strings. "I don't think I'm ready for anything... you know?" He glances at the guy, offering him a smile, meeting his gaze for a moment. "I'm just not ready yet. R-r..." Ray? Reese? Rob? "Right?" John shakes his head, shivering. Lips. Neck. Fingers touch the face. "Alright?"

John lifts his head, looking at the guy, looking right at the lower rim of his glasses.

Throat. Tongue. Teeth.

A sharp, thin, squeaky sound is ringing in his ears.

The guy laughs softly, shrugs, nods at him.

"Of course," he says. "It's not a problem. Sorry... Sorry about the break up."

John finally swallows the saliva in his mouth.

"Th-thanks."

He feels the srings vibrating under his fingertips.

"Don't know what kind of an idiot would break up with you, you know."

John licks his lips, humming out something.

E minor, start on B. Sweep, then pick, climb up.

Faster.

The guy's still sitting on the ground in front of him.

Sweep, pick, climb up. Fast. Faster.

"I just..." The guy huffs out a sound. A laugh. A whistle. "Wow. Damn it, your fingers. I uh... Is it okay if I just hang out with you? I mean, I got it about the break up. Just... Wanna watch you play. Okay? If you don't mind."

John lifts his head, hair brushed away with the motion, and squints at the sunlight reflected off the guy's glasses.

"Sure," he says, eyes moving, avoiding the guy's slouching figure on the ground. Earring. Neck. Jawline. Lips. "Of course."

His teeth are yellow. Tuning keys. Maybe...

"Cool," the guy says. "Thanks."

John hums, starting another melody.

His nail polish is bright blue.

The guy helps him to carry the amp back to the bar, giving the guitar back to Marco, thanking him for him, John waving at him, while Nancy plants a kiss on his cheek, her arms around him.

Nancy smells of perfume, a bit too heavy for her, and Frank's already drunk.

The guy - Rick, _I'm Rick,_ he says, shaking Chris's hand as he's about to leave - buys John a cocktail, pulling the wrinkled bills out of his wallet, old and worn, John looking at the rows of bottles behind the bartender's back.

"Here you go," the guy says, giving him the glass.

John takes a sip. He offers him a smile. His hair. Fingers.

"Thanks."

The back panel of the stand is smooth and shiny.

John tucks his hair behind his ear.

Chris leaves and Laura had already left, but Nancy tells him that maybe she'll come back and also that Steve is coming soon.

John nods, looking around the bar. Nancy's sweet, but her perfume's way too heavy.

"Telecasters," John says, answering the guy's question, Nancy chatting with Marco, gesticulating. "Fender, you know?" The guy nods. "My first one was a Stratocaster, though." Messy dreadlocks. Chains around his neck. Glasses. It's darker in the bar. "My mom's got it for me. But I love telecasters. You know, I was such a fan of Hee Haw, that TV show. And everybody there played Telecasters, so I like thought that it was the only shape, that it is how guitars looked."

The guy laughs softly, listening to him, his glasses reflecting the electric light.

John takes another sip. The bartender moves, passing Frank another shot. His choker. Earring. His neck is really white.

Chris comes back, says he's forgotten something.

The guy's teeth are yellow.

He's looking at him, smiling, his face and fingers. Neck. Earring. Choker.

"Yeah, I was crazy about it," John laughs, showing him his left hand. "You know, my fret hand is so much bigger because I just played all the time when I was growing up."

Frank is laughing loudly in the corner.

John drops his hand before the guy can touch it, lifts it, brushes his hair away.

The guy's hair sticky, old, overgrown dreadlocks that look like a mess of something in the darkness of the bar. His teeth look brown, even black.

Marco turns on the radio. Somebody cheers.

The guy is twenty nine, _I'm thirty in two months,_ he says, answering Frank's question, Frank laughing, smelly, saying something about John being the local baby rock star, John's head turned away from them, John taking sips from his cocktail, looking around the bar.

"Kiss," John says. The guy is standing really close to him, he isn't smelly, he's not drunk, Nancy now looks like she is or maybe on something and Steve is there, there is a song with only two chords playing on the radio, the guy wipes his glasses with a napkin and puts them on, listening to John, standing too close to him. "Really loved them. They are great guys and their songs are just..."

The guy tells him that it is so cool that he had the chance to try that suit on.

That it must have looked so great on him.

The make up too.

John's wearing eyeshadow, mascara, there is a choker around his neck, his jeans are tight around his legs, the black top is showing his shoulders. Arms. Ink. His fingers the guy keeps looking at.

The bartender takes the bottle off the shelf.

Dm. Dsus. C7.

His eyes look almost black.

"Wow, that is awesome," the guy says, responding to something John has said, he goes on, telling him he's so glad they've met and thanks him and...

John finishes his cocktail.

"Hey, I..."

His lips. Eyes. Earrings. Hair.

John holds his fingers next to the guy's arm, not quite touching him.

"And it's..." the guy cuts himself short, smiles at him. "Yeah? Sorry."

John shakes his head, putting down the glass.

His jawline. Neck. His fingers touch the strands of hair.

"Just..." John says, looking over the mess of the guy's dreadlocks. "Come with me."

John locks the door behind them, the guy following him inside the bathroom.

The metal ring of his choker. Clavicles. His chin.

The light is so bright.

John touches the guy's chest with his fingertips, kind of pushing him. He shifts, taking a step back, leaning on the wall.

He smiles at him, looking at his face.

There is a mirror right above the sink.

"What are you..." the guy starts, his eyes on him.

His eyes, eyeshadow and lashes, brown, warm. His hair, longer, shorter strands, the ends touching his cheek. Lips. Neck. His fingers.

John hums, brushing his fingers over the zipper.

The belt, the buckle, lift and pull, his thumb and index finger, smooth, now drop the hand, the button, slow, popping sound, then down, tug at the slider, both hands, spread the fabric and push it to the sides and down, open palm, just sliding, knuckles, turn the wrist, the underwear, then thumb the head, then...

"Damn," the guy mutters under his breath.

John pulls him out, wrapping his fingers around the shaft.

John can see the sticky mess of dreadlocks in the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

John smiles, as the guy's hips jerk forward.

The guy is looking right at him.

John smiles, glancing at him, tilting his head a bit, hand moving slowly around him, fingers light. The guy's cock twitches and he looks down.

He's big.

He's big, cut, the head is brighter than the shaft, so much darker than John's fingers, thin and white around him, wrist turning, cock feeling heavy in his palm.

John licks his lips, swallowing.

"God, wow," the guy says, looking right at him.

His lips. Eyes, brown and warm, hooded, lashes long. Eyeshadow. A strand of hair on the side of his face.

The guy is looking at his face.

His hips jerk forward again, he makes a sound, low, his cock heavy in John's hand, and John lowers his head again.

His knuckles, brush along and bump a bit, then fingers, fingertips on the underside, then pull a little, pressing the thumb to it, now move it, squeeze and turn the wrist, again, again, slow, smooth, slide up and wrap around, his nails, nail polish blue, fingers long and thin and white and...

The guys shifts, swaying closer to him.

"Damn it, you're..."

His eyes, open, bright and warm, lips slightly parted, smile, neck, John tilts his head, his hair, eyes, his earring.

Smile.

John's fingertips are on his shoulder.

"It's fine," John says, looking at the lower rim of the guy's glasses.

He taps his fingers on his shoulder, softly, and turns his wrist, moving his hand, palm sliding up and down, the guy's cock pulsing under his touch.

The guy's mouth is a bit open.

"Shit, I just..."

His teeth are yellow.

John looks at his own hand next to his shoulder, his knuckles, wrist, his ink and nail polish.

"Relax," John says, lips quirking, fingers patting the fabric, light and long. "Okay?" He moves them, kind of pushing, eyelashes fluttering, eyes half closed, head tilted. "Just let me take care of it."

His hand is moving, fingers around the shaft, John leaning into the touch just so.

"Fuck," the guy mutters, swaying back, neck arching, threads and chains around it, stubble on his chin. "Okay. " He smiles, and John smiles too, glancing at him from under the lashes, about to turn away. "Just... I mean, I can... Like, if you want..."

John shakes his head, hair falling on his face with the motion, John turning his wrist, squeezing his fingers a bit tighter.

"It's fine," John says, thumbs the head.

The guy shivers, huffing out a moan. John drags his nails over the underside.

The guy is leaking.

"Fuck," he says, closing his eyes, leaning on the wall.

Throat, chin, stubble. Sticky dreadlocks. Stretched lobes. Glasses, electric light reflected off them.

He moans, hips jerking forward, cock sliding in John's palm.

Eyes, darker under the lashes, lips parted, his neck, choker, earrings, a flick of tongue, a flash of teeth.

The guy is pushing in his hand.

"God, fuck," he mutters.

John bites his lips. Jawline. Neck. Strands of hair.

The guy is staring at his fingers around him.

John tilts forward just a bit, slow, smooth, just a bit closer.

John parts his lips, letting the saliva trickle down, landing on the head, the long string hanging off, eyelashes fluttering.

"Jesus fuck."

John licks his lips, chin wet, smearing the spit over the guy's cock, fingers so light and long and thin and white around him.

The guy's clenching his fists.

"It's okay," John says. John smiles.

His cock feels slick and heavy in his palm, pulsing under his fingertips, hips jerking forward, fingers moving, sliding up and down, squeezing, turning, pulling and there are sounds, vibration under his fingertips, the guy's breath's loud, he's swearing, muttering something, pushing in his palm, slick and heavy, big and hot, so much darker than John's fingers.

The guy is staring right at his hand around him.

"Fuck, god, John..."

His lips, parted, still a bit wet, eyes warm and dark, even darker under his long lashes, eyeshadow, eyelids, a strand of hair touching his cheek, earring reflecting electric light, the ring of his choker, neck white, a strand of hair touching it.

"Shit, god, I'm gonna..."

His eyes are brown, so warm and soft, his lips, quirking, he wets them with his tongue, a flash of teeth, he tilts his head, his neck, choker, earring, he parts his lips, breathing out the sound.

"Yeah," John says, leaning into the touch, the guy's cock slick and pulsing, the guy's hips jerking forward, fast, faster, his motions sure and smooth and light, the guy is leaking, pushing in his palm. "Come on."

John smiles, as the guy comes all over his hand and fingers, staring at them, at him.

John smiles.

There is a mirror right above the sink.

"Sure," John says, nodding, glancing at him from under his eyelashes, as the guy's hand lingers on the handle, fingers brushing against John's arm. "I'll be right there."

John offers him a smile, as the guy closes the door, eyes on him.

Eyes.

Dark. Almost black.

John bites his lower lip, looking in the mirror.

John lifts his hand. Fingers, white and thin and long, motion slow, smooth.

Come trickles down his arm, over his ink, and John shifts, swaying forward, John licks the trails up, sticking his tongue out, dragging it over the skin.

John licks his fingers clean, looking in the mirror.

John is smiling.

The light is so bright.

***

"So I'm... I'm gonna go. Okay? Thanks."

Ginger is smiling at him, shifting on his feet and glancing at the floor, as John is standing there, holding the door open, lingering, fingers in motion on the handle and on his own neck, and John is smiling too.

Lips.

Ginger laughs a bit.

"I mean, thanks for the... for the evening," he says, gaze sliding down John's face. Lips. Lips. Lips. "It was... really nice. Thank you. I uh... I'm gonna go."

John leans back, fingers stopping, and quirks his lips.

His eyelashes flutter.

John puts on a smile one more time.

"Sure," he says, smiling at Ginger. Tongue. Teeth. Lips. "Thank you too. It really was very nice."

He lifts his hand, brushing his fingers down Ginger's shirt, leaning into the touch, holding that smile, bright, inviting, tilting his head, looking at him from under the eyelashes.

Ginger huffs out another laugh, then nods.

"Okay," he says, swaying back half a step, crossing his arms, hand on his elbow. "I uh... Thanks." He glances at his face again. "See you in the morning."

He drops his hands, finding his room keys in his pocket.

John bites his lower lip and straightens up, letting go of the door.

"See you," Ginger says, waving at him.

John nods a few times and just holds his position, motionless.

"See you."

John waits until he hears Ginger entering his own room and closes the door slowly, looking around, then at the floor.

John swallows hard, huffs out a puff of air, then shakes his head. His fingers spring to life, fists clenching. John rubs his hands, exhaling loudly again. John bites his lips.

He turns half around, stepping away, then stops, sighing, fingers moving, throat twitching. He glances around, at the door.

John kicks the door.

John takes a shower, hot water running down his face and body, John listening to it, just standing there without moving after he's washed himself.

He combs his wet hair, touching the strands, brushing them back, to one side, to another, touching his neck. He touches his face, removing what's left of the make up, rubbing at the skin around his eyes, putting on lip balm, looking in the mirror.

Shoulders. Clavicles. Arms. Ink. His neck.

John takes out the earrings, tucking his hair behind his ears, turning his head to the side, then to another.

Jawline. Chin. His lips.

John stands in front of the mirror, looking at himself, until it clears of the fog completely.

John plays.

John leaves the bathroom, puts on pajama pants and a t-shirt, turns on the TV.

John plays, listening to the sounds of the movie, tapping his foot, trying different rhythms, fingers moving.

Sweeping. Picking. Sliding. Up. And down.

Up and down.

John plays until his hair becomes completely dry. John plays until the movie ends. John plays some more.

John crawls into the bed, yawning, pulling the blanket up, covering himself and curling up, humming.

The tune is humming in his ears too, chords alternating, growing slower, thicker, denser, spinning, warm.

"So you put that number here. Just like that. And then..."

Ginger goes on, pointing at the lines of the form, writing down the numbers, letters, and John leans closer, glancing around, smiling, warm wind shuffling his hair.

Ginger lifts his head, looking at him, in his eyes and at his lips, Ginger lifts his hand and also leans closer and...

John exhales, flipping, turning to his other side, fluffing the pillow and tucking his hand under it, listening to his own breath, slow, light, spinning, warm.

"And here..." Ginger says right next to his ear, shifting, getting up and bending over him, picking up something from the table. "Here you just write this. And then your name right there."

Ginger smiles at him, as John nods, he's looking at his neck and earring. He moves his hand, their fingers brushing against each other, he covers John's hand with his, tracing his skin, and he leans closer, looking at John's face, his eyes and lips and he...

John exhales loudly, feeling a surge of warmth rolling down his body, turning again, lying on his back and looking at the ceiling in the darkness of the room.

He wipes his face with both his hands, props himself on his elbows, glacing at his guitar sitting there on the armchair.

He licks his lips, head heavy, and sighs. He lies back down, closing his eyes.

"And that's it," Ginger says, looking in his eyes. "All dealt with." Ginger smiles, sitting really close to him, leaning even closer, lifting his hand. "Should we maybe do something more interesting now?"

Ginger brushes his fingers over his cheek, down, slowly, thumbing his lower lip, pressing on it, John's mouth falling open.

"What do you say?" Ginger asks, pushing the thumb in, finding John's tongue, John's lips closing around it.

"Oh," Ginger says, looking at his face, as John sucks his thumb, eyelashes fluttering. "You are a pretty little---"

John groans, loud, body going tense, and opens his eyes, swallowing the saliva in his mouth, face, neck and chest hot.

John huffs out a burst of air, shaking his head, looking around the room.

\--- thing, aren't you?"

John's cock twitches in his pajama pants, his whole body hot under the blanket.

John sighs, looking down, and props himself on his elbows, throwing off the blanket.

John pulls down his pajama pants.

"What do you want, John?" Ginger asks, whispering, voice low, eyes right on him. "Tell me."

John wraps his palm around his erection, letting out a moan.

"What should I do to you?" Ginger asks, next to his ear, breath shuffling his hair.

John shivers, stomach feeling so tight. His fingers move, sliding up and down the shaft, slow.

"I want to do so many things to you," Ginger says, licking his ear. The very edge of it. "I want to make you mine."

John shivers, a wave of heat rolling over him, heat and cold right after that, he breathes, heavy, inhaling loud. He props himself on one elbow, looking at his own body, his hand around his cock, motionless, still.

She leans closer, holding the cherry with her lips, her dress slides up. Short. Red. No, purple. Her fingers touch his neck. The chain. No, choker. She brushes her index finger over his choker, leaning closer, showing her cleavage. Not blonde. Brunette. Curvy. She's wearing lipstick. She leans closer, her body touching his, she holds the cherry between her lips, offering it to him. Purple. Purple lipstick. She drags her finger down his chest. She smiles, looks at him. She says...

"Or are you already mine?" Ginger says, cupping the back of his neck. "Tell me you're mine, John."

No.

His throat.

"Tell me you're mine, John," Ginger says, palm covering his throat, fingers holding his chin, making him look at him.

John moans, deep and loud, mouth falling open, neck arching, head heavy on the pillow. His palm slides up and down the shaft, thumb on the head. He spreads his legs, stomach feeling so tight.

"Yes," he says, looking up at Ginger, eyes warm, lashes, eyeshadow. "I'm yours."

Ginger smiles, touching his lips, holding his gaze.

Ginger holds him. Lifts him. Puts him on the bed.

John moans again, dropping his hand, brushing his fingers against his hole.

Silk.

Ginger throws him on the bed, on the sheets. He's on top of him, hot and heavy, body feeling strong, and he's looking at him from above.

He pulls off his jeans. He...

Ginger pulls up his top, exposing his chest, touching him, kissing his skin.

"You're so beautiful," he says, looking him up and down. His chest. Ink. Lips. His clavicles. He...

"Take it off," Ginger tells him, he's lying there naked on the bed. Ginger pulls off his jeans. "Let me see you."

John shudders, hole and cock pulsing under his fingers, he swallows hard, swallows the saliva in his mouth, he sits up, hurried, looking around the room.

"Pretty little thing," Ginger says.

John goes through his bag, breath loud, a low sound humming in his ears, just one chord on repeat, he finds the lube, uncapping it, fingers moving fast.

Faster.

"You're amazing," Ginger says, he's on top of him. "You've got amazing skin. Amazing body."

He's planting kisses down his neck and chest and stomach.

His stomach feels so tight.

"I want you," Ginger says.

John moans, eyelashes fluttering, eyes closing, slipping his finger into his hole, legs thrown wide.

"I want you to be mine," Ginger tells him.

John arches, pushing his finger in and out, other hand on his neck and chest, sliding down.

"Yes," John says, holding himself open. "I am. I'm yours. You can have me."

John moans, breathing heavily, his fingers on his lips, mouth slightly open, wet.

"Fuck me, Ginj," John says.

John shivers, his stomach tense, whole body hot, he shifts, wriggling on his own fingers, naked in the darkness of the room, skin white, his skin and ink and hands.

"Oh, I will," Ginger tells him, holding his legs, pulling them apart. "I'll fuck you so hard you'll beg."

John's breath hitches, he sits up, pulling the t-shirt off himself hastily, yanking the pajama pants off his ankles, flipping over, he's on his hands and knees, back arching.

"Will you beg for me, John?" Ginger asks, hands in his hair, fingers on his lips, pulling his mouth open, making him look, John looking up at him from under his lashes. "Will you beg for my cock?"

John licks his fingers, touching his lips, mouth open, wet, he pushes his fingers in and out, rocks his hips.

"Please," John says.

He drops his hand, wrapping it around his cock, smearing it with saliva.

"Ask me," Ginger says, the head of his cock touching his entrance, Ginger holding him tight, down, pinning him, he's naked on the bed in the darkness, dark sheets, lights glowing, he's wearing lipstick. "Ask me to fuck you, John."

He's sucking Ginger's thumb, looking up at him, his eyes, hair, lips, he's wearing lipstick, dark, his eyes look almost black.

John rocks his hips, spreading his legs wider, face on the pillow, back arching, fingers sliding in and out of his hole.

"Please, fuck me, Ginj," he says.

Ginger pushes in, holds him by his hips, his cock thick and heavy, pressing on his hole, stretching him.

"So tight," Ginger says.

Ginger slides inside, to the very root, spreading him.

"Such a good little hole for my cock," Ginger says.

John moans, palm moving up and down the shaft, wet and sure, he rocks his hips, trying to push his fingers even deeper.

"Aren't you?" Ginger asks, slapping his butt as he fucks him. "Are you a good little hole, John?"

John bites his lips, bites the pillow, the pillow wet under his face, his face feels hot, he's on his hands and knees, naked in the darkness of the room, he pushes his fingers deeper in his ass, rocking his hips, he moans, skin white, back arched, legs spread wide, his stomach feeling so tight.

"Little slut," Ginger says, right in his ear, voice low, breath shuffling his hair.

His hair is wet, clinging to his face, to the wet pillow, John opens his mouth, moaning into the pillow, pushing on his own fingers, faster, hand around his cock.

"Aren't you just a dirty slut, John?" Ginger asks, fucking into him, fucking him hard, holding him by his hips, pulling his cheeks apart, looking at him, at his hole. "So good for me."

John shuts his eyes tight, head heavy, spinning, face wet and hot, both hands moving, faster, harder, he's naked there on the bed, fucking himself, he bites the pillow, fingers wet around his cock.

"Yes," he says. "I am."

Ginger fucks him, he's on his hands and knees, Ginger pulls his hair, pulls his head up, his neck arching, pulls him by his choker, he's wearing lipstick, mouth open, Ginger's thumb in his mouth, Ginger is fucking him, his hole, he's just...

"I'm your slut," John says, he's begging, _please_ , he says, _fuck me_ , he says, Ginger is holding him, he's fucking him, rough and hard, his cock is thick and heavy in his hole, hitting just the right spot, _please_ , he says, _I'm a slut_ , he says, Ginger is looking at him, his lips and eyes, his throat, he holds his throat, he sucks his thumb, he's wearing lipstick, eyeshadow, his lashes, _I want you_ , Ginger says, he's looking at him, hair, earrings, neck, _John_ , Ginger says, he's naked on the bed, on the dark silky sheets and Ginger's fucking him, he's holding him, rough and fast, he's looking at him, at his face, his body, _I love you_ , Ginger says, he's naked, skin white, his ink looking so bright, his mouth open, lips closed around Ginger's thumb, Ginger is looking at his hole, his neck, in his eyes, _I love you more than anybody_ , Ginger says, he's fucking him, he's so beautiful, amazing, perfect, Ginger is staring at him, breathless, _I want you to be mine_ , he says, _please_ , he says, he's looking at his face, his body, in his eyes, his eyes are almost black, _I love you_ , he says, he kisses him and fucks him, he's...

"John."

John comes, moaning into the pillow, mouth open, wet, voice low, loud and deep, it's ringing in his ears, humming, spinning, dense, John comes, clenching around his fingers, his fingers on his cock, wet and fast and sure, John comes, he shakes, his whole naked body, back arching, face pressed into the pillow, legs spread wide, John comes, pushing his fingers in and out of his hole, stomach feeling tight, John comes.

"Yes," John says. "Yes."

He falls asleep, exhausted, he wipes his hands, using his own t-shirt, he finds the pack of cookies Ginger's bought for him, he chews on one and then one more, he's drowsy, head heavy on the pillow, he pulls the blanket up, he curls up, his body light, breath light, he's floaty, John falls asleep, as the tune keeps playing in his mind.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________


End file.
